Yes We Effing Did: A Remember When Feature

When I turned to my friends at 11:04pm on Tuesday to say "let's take to the streets," all I meant was "let's pop champagne on your stoop before I pass out on your Mt. Pleasant couch." My only regret from the night is not joining them on their adventure to U Street, White House and essentially every other block that seemed to be flooded with people. However, the energy in DC right now continues to be palpable. You cannot ask someone simply how their day is going without a large grin and exuberant response (of course, I work for a human rights foundation, so this may be a bias..).

So in honor of Tuesday night's events, I couldn't think of a better feature than Barry himself. He wrote these poem's while on a brief tenure at Occidental College (can't keep up with dude's geography). There is so much I to want to say right now but I think I'm just coming down from it all and need some more time to process. For now, our feature for this week, Mr. President Elect (baller), Barack Obama:

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.