In the video “Dreams from my Real Father,” directed by Joel Gilbert, the argument is made that Obama’s real father was the well-known communist agitator, Frank Marshall Davis, who was a writer and a poet. Davis was Obama’s childhood mentor. The poem appears to fit Frank Marshall Davis better than Barack Obama, the Kenyan, or Stanley Dunham.
Frank Marshall Davis was also a drug dealer, pornographer, bisexual libertine and self-admitted pedophile. This has given rise to speculation that the references in the poem to mutual “amber stains” on their shorts and “makes me smell his smell, coming from me” is actually reference to the sight and smell of semen.Davis is said to have been a source of drugs for Obama. In his biographical pornographic book, “Sex Rebel,” he describes how he and his wife seduced a 13-year old girl named “Anne,” who some think may have been Obama’s Mother, Ann Dunham, though Dunham was several years older than that, when her family moved to Hawaii in 1960. Davis could have exaggerated her youth to enhance prurient interest.
Frank Marshall Davis was himself mentored by a famous singer, named Paul Robeson, who was a communist and an earlier black messiah figure. Robeson was called “The Great Forerunner” (of other black Messiahs). He was invited to be be the vice-presidential candidate for the New Progressive Party in 1948 by founder Henry Wallace. However, Wallace had to drop out of the race when his connection to a Rasputin-like occult guru in the Soviet Union was exposed.
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 (neat=straight whiskey) 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, (mirror for a line of cocaine?) 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 shink, my ("shink" can mean in urban slang to become awkward.) 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. -- Barack Obama