I wonder if he used a fork.

By Frank Tankard

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

What do you want in a pres-i-dent? Me, I want a poet. I voted for Rimbaud in the last election. So, who's the best poet in the race? I pasted below a couple poems that Barack Hussein Osama wrote in 1981 (found here). I can't wait to read JMac's stuff.

POP

Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken

In, sprinkled with ashes

Pop switches channels, takes another

Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks

What to do with me, a green young man

Who fails to consider the

Flim and flam of the world, since

Things have been easy for me;

I stare hard at his face, a stare

That deflects off his brow;

I’m sure he’s unaware of his

Dark, watery eyes, that

Glance 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 hang

With heavy lobes, but he’s still telling

His joke, so I ask why

He’s so unhappy, to which he replies...

But I don’t care anymore, cause

He took too damn long, and from

Under my seat, I pull out the

Mirror I’ve been saving; I’m laughing,

Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face

To mine, as he grows small,

A spot in my brain, something

That may be squeezed out, like a

Watermelon seed between

Two fingers.

Pop takes another shot, neat,

Points out the same amber

Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine, and

Makes me smell his smell, coming

From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem

He wrote before his mother died,

Stands, shouts, and asks

For a hug, as I shrink, my

Arms barely reaching around

His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; ’cause

I see my face, framed within

Pop’s black-framed glasses

And know he’s laughing too.

UNDERGROUND

Under water grottos, caverns

Filled with apes

That eat figs.

Stepping on the figs

That the apes

Eat, they crunch.

The apes howl, bare

Their fangs, dance,

Tumble in the

Rushing water,

Musty, wet pelts

Glistening in the blue.

ALSO, I found this sweet site called "Poems about Presidents." Here's one by Kasey:

GEORGE WASHINGTON

G. W. is his nickname.

He was humble to his fame.

I cross his bridge when I enter New York.

I wonder if he used a fork.

That was years ago when he was born.

He was the calm after the storm.

He was the first president in the U.S.

What happened before him?

Oh, what a mess!

I wonder if he used a fork. Brilliant. It inspired me to write one:

VARIATIONS ON THE FORK THEME

I wonder if he used a fork.

I wonder if he used a spoon.

I wonder if he used a knife.

I wonder if he used a broom.

THE END.

Lawrence.com blogs are collections of short, frequently updated posts by members of the Lawrence community. Blog writers, and comment posters, are solely responsible for what they say. (Please take the time to read our full policy.)

If you're interested in writing a blog on lawrence.com, send us a couple of sample entries.

Comments

lawrence.com does not necessarily agree with comments posted below - responsibility lies with the relevant user alone. Read our full policy

Posted by Shelby (anonymous) on May 21, 2008 at 11:25 a.m. (Suggest removal)

I like the broom part.

I wonder if he used a fork.

Comments

Post a comment