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Saturday, March 14, 2015

Featuring Doug Draime

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

and without

on the lawn

like she
owned it

and then flew
away up

out over the

It was the most

thing I’ve seen
in months

Flashback: Moonshine Blues

we sipped
from the
Mason jar
in front of
in Phil’s old
’57 Mercury
smoking our
Pall Malls &
to Randy’s
Record Shop
from Nashville
Jim got
pissed off
at me
not sure
why &
to fight
we all got out
of the car
& he
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
snuggling up and
sharing photos
of their kids and pets,

exchanging recipes,
and juicy tidbits
of their
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

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
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,
“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

sailing through the profusely bleeding
eye of human madness  


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

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.