Quote from: b e c k on March 23, 2007, 01:24:06 PMQuote from: f r i e d m a n on March 23, 2007, 01:22:19 PMLOL friedman, I know what ya mean! I liked best the cave thing -- the special underground shelters in Missouri, yanoo
Quote from: f r i e d m a n on March 23, 2007, 01:22:19 PMLOL friedman, I know what ya mean!
- In a 2004 fund-raising letter for her husband, Michelle Obama referred to the brutal partial birth abortion as a "legitimate medical procedure." - In 2001 and 2002, Obama was the only Illinois senator to speak against the "Born Alive Infants Protection Act" on the Senate floor and in 2003 killed the bill in committee. This would have outlawed a practice first uncovered in his state known as a "live birth abortion," where labor is induced and an infant is delivered prematurely only to be put in some dark corner of a hospital until she expires on her own.
Pop Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and brokenIn, sprinkled with ashes,Pop switches channels, takes anotherShot of Seagrams, neat, and asksWhat to do with me, a green young manWho fails to consider theFlim and flam of the world, sinceThings have been easy for me;I stare hard at his face, a stareThat deflects off his brow;I'm sure he's unaware of hisDark, watery eyes, thatGlance in different directions,And his slow, unwelcome twitches,Fail to pass.I listen, nod,Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,Beige T-shirt, yelling,Yelling in his ears, that hangWith heavy lobes, but he's still tellingHis joke, so I ask whyHe's so unhappy, to which he replies...But I don't care anymore, causeHe took too d**mn long, and fromUnder my seat, I pull out theMirror Iíve been saving; I'm laughing,Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his faceTo mine, as he grows small,A spot in my brain, somethingThat may be squeezed out, like aWatermelon seed betweenTwo fingers.Pop takes another shot, neat,Points out the same amberStain on his shorts that Iíve got on mine, andMakes me smell his smell, comingFrom me; he switches channels, recites an old poemHe wrote before his mother died,Stands, shouts, and asksFor a hug, as I shink, myArms barely reaching aroundHis thick, oily neck, and his broad back; 'causeI see my face, framed withinPop's black-framed glassesAnd know he's laughing too.
Underground Under water grottos, cavernsFilled with apesThat eat figs.Stepping on the figsThat the apesEat, they crunch.The apes howl, bareTheir fangs, dance,Tumble in theRushing water,Musty, wet peltsGlistening in the blue.
No churches can be built no privy holes or even graves dug in the rolling hills for those milking Firestoneís trees, who die from mamba and mosquito bites.
He ... Stands, shouts, and asks For a hug, as I shink, my Arms barely reaching around His thick, oily neck
The second, Underground, offers a vivid if obscurely symbolic description of a tribe of submarine primates. The exemplary lines go,Quote Underground Under water grottos, cavernsFilled with apesThat eat figs.Stepping on the figsThat the apesEat, they crunch.The apes howl, bareTheir fangs, dance,Tumble in theRushing water,Musty, wet peltsGlistening in the blue.
He doesn't have the composure, doesn't project the manly image needed -- he looks likes those skinny hyperactive kids in elementary school that run around and stumble on words when reading too fast.
Quote from: interestoninterest on May 26, 2007, 09:19:56 PMQuote from: b e c k on March 23, 2007, 01:24:06 PMQuote from: f r i e d m a n on March 23, 2007, 01:22:19 PMLOL friedman, I know what ya mean! I liked best the cave thing -- the special underground shelters in Missouri, yanoo That's why Jenny did not go I think
Quote from: smokingquitter on February 13, 2007, 11:45:28 PMHe doesn't have the composure, doesn't project the manly image needed -- he looks likes those skinny hyperactive kids in elementary school that run around and stumble on words when reading too fast. He does not talk too fast, in fact he makes long pauses at times..
Junkie. Pothead. That's where I'd been headed: the final, fatal role of the young would-be black man. Except the highs hadn't been about me trying to prove what a down brother I was. Not by then, anyway. I got high for just the opposite effect, something that could push questions of who I was out of my mind, something that could flatten out the landscape of my heart, blur the edges of my memory. I had discovered that it didn't make any difference whether you smoked reefer in the white classmate's sparkling new van, or in the dorm room of some brother you'd met down at the gym, or on the beach with a couple of Hawaiian kids who had dropped out of school and now spent most of their time looking for an excuse to brawl. You might just be bored, or alone. Everybody was welcome into the club of disaffection. And if the high didn't solve whatever it was that was getting you down, it could at least help you laugh at the world's ongoing folly and see through all the hypocrisy and bull and cheap moralism. "I had learned not to care," he wrote. "I blew a few smoke rings, remembering those years. Pot had helped, and booze; maybe a little blow when you could afford it. Not smack, though ..."-- From "Dreams from My Father," by Barack Obama, p. 87 Aug 1, 1996