A Bird’s Gift
A big red
breasted robin
flew into
the back yard
and landed on
a 2 foot high
stone wall
that surrounds
the scrubs and
plants
and without
hesitation
shat
on the lawn
like she
owned it
and then flew
away up
out over the
Cascades
It was the most
impressive
thing I’ve seen
in months
Flashback: Moonshine Blues
we sipped
from the
Mason jar
in front of
Trudy’s
house
in Phil’s old
’57 Mercury
smoking our
Pall Malls &
Luckies
listening
to Randy’s
Record Shop
from Nashville
Jim got
pissed off
at me
not sure
why &
wanted
to fight
we all got out
of the car
& he
swung
missing me
by a foot
I swung &
he went
down hard
we got back
in the car
(except for Jim) &
listened to
Big Mama Thorton
( & Jim crying )
as we drank more
of the
moonshine &
waited for the
next rush
Over At Facebook
The self-proclaimed
outlaw poets
are all over at
Facebook
snuggling up and
sharing photos
of their kids and pets,
exchanging recipes,
and juicy tidbits
of their
mock-renegade
and pseudo-non-
conformist lifestyles.
Which goes to
prove that even the
most superficial
among us, have not
lost the basic need
to communicate
with like-minded
others.
A Hoot
Give it to the black sun
of Harry Crosby.
Give it to the Nomads of Niger
dancing in jagged pairs.
Give it to the hollow dead eyes
of Goya.
Give it to the dust blowing westward
constantly in the
Grand Canyon.
Give it to the blind watch maker laughing
insanely on 43rd street.
I don’t care. I don’t give a shit any more. Give
it to Kerouac’s last
fucking death binge.
Poetry Promoter
A writer, working with a
well known booking agency,
emailed me from the Bay
area with a friendly invitation
to come and read, along with
several other poets. Writers
and poets from all over the
country were showing up. A real
big shindig, he said. He made
mention of the booking agency at
least 3 times in his short note.
I wondered about the other writers,
coming from all over the country,
paying their own expenses to get
to California to read their poesy
for 10 or 15 minutes, tops, for no pay.
How could these writers afford to do that?
I’m sure some of them had jobs,
and families like me. And a booking
agency? There had to be some kind
of liquid money flow, otherwise a booking
agency wouldn’t bother getting involved. So,
I emailed him back telling him the
truth, that I just couldn’t afford the trip.
But, I asked, if there was any extra cash in the
booking agency’s kitty, for a motel for my
wife, my dog, and myself - along with
some gas money - then we could take
care of the eating expenses ourselves.
When I didn’t hear back from him after a month,
I felt like writing him again to say that I was
only kidding around about the money, just fucking
with him. But that would have been a lie,
because I was as serious as a hard attack.
Stardust Club
She said she had
my number. But
I told her
my number was still
being calculated
by numerous
committees of
mathematicians
and a large
assortment of
Vegas odds makers.
In other words,
the beads were still
flying up and down
the abacus
at incredible speeds.
She giggled
seductively, smiled
and moved in
closer, her hand
rubbing my dick
through my jeans.
Her mouth
and tongue on my neck,
whispering,
“You know what number
I’m talkin’ about.”
Earth Is A Drunken Cyclops
Earth exists in a spiritual squalor;
it is a drunken Cyclops,
perpetually a monster, sea sick with
a single purpose :
a tunnel vision,
to murder us all.
Constantly on the turbulent waves
of ordinary and catastrophic
devastation,
sailing through the profusely bleeding
eye of human madness
Cubism
Purple faces
eating rotten Spam
and drinking
gasoline. You
paint and write
what you think
is there. Not
what catches
your eye.
The world is
fucked up
enough. Even
Picasso’s
mangy old dog
knew that.
They Are Slaughtered Still
Older hookers on 44th Street
Still proclaim that he was just
A kinky, foul mouthed john
From the baby killing Pentagon
They laugh about him now
That his money is going to the
Escort services suggested to him
By a well known congressman
And the slaughter of babies still goes on
They are slaughtered still
As the prices of the call girls grows higher
Without a thought he fucks his girls, and kills
Those babies, his hand in the cookie jar in the kitchen
Of his mansion, his wife chattering on
About her tedious day talking to the PTA
One son is home from Princeton eating
Breakfast at the kitchen table, another
Son is just coming down the stairway
As the babies keep on being slaughtered
They are slaughtered still
As he prepares to go to bed that night
After a long day in the War Room at the Pentagon
He sees decomposing bodies in the mirror but
None of them appear to be his own, so he takes
Two sleeping pills, climbs into bed next his
Snoozing wife and falls fast to sleep like a baby
As real babies are slaughtered still
Red’s Tavern
Pete’s stab wounds
were a badge of honor.
Pulling his beer stained
Dodger t-shirt up,
showing me
a 5 inch scar
across his huge
beer belly
That’s something, man,
I said
He jumped up from his stool,
turned around and
with both hands
pulled his t-shirt
up to the back of his neck,
revealing a large, embedded,
nasty looking gush
in the middle of his back
clear down to
the cheeks of his fat ass.
He turned around with a goofy,
drunken smile on his face,
pulling his shirt down, “The x done
that, with a broken beer bottle,
night she left and went to Tucson.
They say I lost 4 pints of blood.”
That’s something, man,
I said again and bought him a
beer for that one.
Doug Draime emerged as a presence in the literary ‘underground’
in Los Angeles in the late 1960’s. Most recent full-length collection
of poetry is More Than The Alley, released in 2012 by Interior Noise
Press. Also, available are five chapbooks: In Back of Madam Wong’s
(Tree Killer/Epic Rites Press), Dusk With Carol (Kendra Steiner Editions),
Los Angeles Terminal: Poems 1971-1980 (Covert Press), Rock ’n Roll
Jizz (Propaganda Press), and Speed of Light, an online chapbook from
Right Hand Pointing. He currently lives and writes in the foothills of the
Cascade mountain range in southern Oregon.
