A fortune teller once told my wife that I was a black cloud
Hanging over her head.
I tell whoever will listen that Obama is a black cloud
Stealing their breath,
Stifling their wherewithal,
Pressing down on the free enterprise of the map.
We are both black.
So I’m white.
I feel black.
We are inhibitors.
I celebrate my pinching the nose of my own respiration.
Our promises undercut themselves.
I like to be difficult.
If I were a black leader I would make my people proud.
I would not be a mistake.
I would not calculate my racial and liberal votes.
As for Obama
He is playing poker with a deck of spades.
He has no hearts, clubs or diamonds.
Ideology has no room for love.
I identify with the hurt of internal darkness and see suicide
In an executive order.
Obama has wiped out a generation who cheers for their own demise
Like a gladiator laughing while he is eaten by a lion,
An arm twitching while it is eaten by a shark.
The community has become disorganized.
His utopian plans are ripped like the New York Times in the wind.
The journalists’ columns lie dishonestly on the ground and in our ears.
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