Monday, December 7, 2009

Today's Liberal Poetry Mash-up

What happens when you combine President That Never Was Al Gore’s untitled 21 lines of “beautiful, evocative and disturbing” genius from the first chapter of his newest book predicting the end of the world with President Obama’s "Pop," written when he was 19 and wrestling with some deep dark secrets involving his grandfather?

Pop the Shepherd Cries

Snow glides from the mountain
Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken
In, sprinkled with ashes,
A floating continent disappears
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks
What to do with me, a green young man
In midnight sun
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since
Ice fathers floods for a season
Things have been easy for me;
One thin September soon
I stare hard at his face, a stare
That deflects off his brow;
A hard rain comes quickly
I'm sure he's unaware of his
Dark, watery eyes, that
Glance in different directions,
And his slow, unwelcome twitches,
Fail to pass.
Then dirt is parched
I listen, nod,
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
Beige T-shirt, yelling,
Here are your tools!
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...
"Unknown creatures
Take their leave, unmourned
Horsemen ready their stirrups."
But I don't care anymore, cause
For the lightning's celebration
He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror I've been saving; I'm laughing,
The bell of the city,
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face
To mine, as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
On the hill is rung
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between
Neptune's bones, dissolve
Two fingers.
Pop takes another shot, neat,
Passion seeks heroes and friends,
Points out the same amber
Stain on his shorts that I've got on mine, and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
Vapors rise as
From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem
He wrote before his mother died,
The hour of choosing has arrived,
Stands, shouts, and asks
For a hug, as I shink*, my
Fever settles on an acid sea
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; 'cause
Kindling is placed in the forest
I see my face, framed within
Pop's black-framed glasses
And know he's laughing too.
The shepherd cries.