SELECTED POETRY

by
Doug Draime

TRIP TO NOWHERE

Where I found answers I
could not find questions
for. The middle was not
in the middle but off
to the right side, positioned
like an open grave. Voices
spoke In English making
no grammatical sense. I
grabbed hold of
the edge
of something freezing and fierce,
which took off all my flesh up
to my elbow. There was no moon
or sun or stars or sky
only rain and movement all
around me like
speeding trains on
rusty tracks. No entrance, no
exit, no way of telling light
from dark. My bones
broke like pencils
against monolithic structures everywhere
I turned
and everywhere was nowhere
and somewhere was slaughtered with
no purpose and no direction.
Suddenly there was a sound like
millions
of breaking windows,
smashing in echo chambers
over and over. I knew then, somehow, I had broken
through and that my bones would
heal, I would form new skin on
my arm, and the questions were something
in the middle once again. The moon, the
sun, the stars and the sky were
there too.

© Doug Draime

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SALLY

I couldn’t tell whether she was
a man or woman at first. I took the
bottle anyway. It was four in the morning
and the rain was beginning to fall,
as we huddled together in the alley off of
5th and Temple in downtown L.A. The Night
Train was smooth going down warming my throat and
stomach. After passing the bottle back and forth
a few times, I found out her name was Sally.
She was younger than me; she took off her Cincinnati
Reds baseball cap, and her hair was matted and
filthy, but through it all, a radiant shiny black.
She asked if I wanted some sex. I told her no, I was
too tired for that. She seemed relieved, but shot me a
quick disgusted look. “You’re not a fag, are you?”
she asked. “No,” I answered, “just real tired.”
Sally was from Baltimore. Had been living on the streets
for over a year, and when she couldn’t stand it
any longer, the women’s shelter at the mission.
Her father raped her.
Her brother raped her.
Her uncle raped her.
Her mother broke her arm and called her a whore,
throwing her out on the streets when she
was 16. “The fucking world sucks, “ she said. I nodded in
agreement, taking another long pull from the bottle.
We sat huddled, talking together till the rain stopped
and the sun was breaking out over the downtown
skyline. Pigeons flew in the morning light overhead.
I left her there about 6 a.m. sleeping up against a cardboard
garment box, and headed back to my apartment in Silverlake
It’d been 3 long days of booze, speed, weed,
debauchery, madness, lies and violence. Little
of which I remember, but I do remember
waking up in that stinking alley
next to her warmth, with no hope but the bottle,
no desire but to warm myself, no thoughts,
no future.
As I walked out of the alley onto 5th street I
looked back at her sleeping peacefully,
and in the light and fading shadows of
morning, she was almost beautiful.
After these many years of my life, of drugs, booze,
marriage, poetry, divorce, love, resurrection,
friendships, poverty, prosperity, death, homelessness,
children, betrayal, rage, faith; the endless nowhere jobs
and all the rest of the moments
which brought me to this moment, this memory,
my tears saturate the paper for Sally,
and I raise my fist to the world,
for her, myself and all the rest of you.

© Doug Draime

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WORKER 1943-46

He had Churchill's face
and Hitler’s body,
standing behind a
a poster of Roosevelt
(in his wheelchair). I
was just born
on the
other
side of the
world. My daddy
drove a Willy’s
panel wagon. They
were bombing
London, and bombing
Indiana gravel pits...
for the sport,
and telling lies
to their priests. He was
pouring
liquid
steel
from huge vats, drinking
Old Grand Dad
by the gallon and
breaking the hearts
of truck stop whores,
who had
brothers and husbands
dying overseas
for all of us.

© Doug Draime

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POEMS AND WORSHIP

POEMS:

poems should rip the heart out of the vampire
poems that tear holes in conceptional walls
poems have to reshape unshape language
poems are plain direct
poems run like buffaloes thru television sets
poems would put Emile Zola to rest at last
poems turn into deep water wells in the wilderness
poems must be like axes in the forest of society’s insanity
poems recycle experience canceling out yesterday tomorrow
poems look like a drunk with the dry heaves
poems beat cops into stinking midnight alleys

WORSHIP:

we worship all that is immoral in this country
we worship cancer
we worship fame
we worship escapism in this country
we worship drugs
we worship suffering
we worship greed
we worship sick people in this country
we worship adultery
we worship life insurance
we worship lies
we worship television sets
we worship the evil bearer of black tidings in this country
we worship universities
we worship sex
we worship the corporations which pollute our air
we worship the doctors who perpetuate our diseases
we worship betrayal
we worship the Big Bomb
we worship fear
we worship nothing that is essential in this country
we worship the dead

© Doug Draime

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NOW THAT YOU ARE GONE

for Beth

The fact that we can receive
and transmit
music and voices through the air
amazes me. Everything amazes me!
That life goes on amazes me. Your body
is under the
earth now. Molecules still expand
and contract. People are still at
war: the couple up front are still
trying to
kill each other. Children born innocent
still have a chance, if they don’t
accept it all. You are gone. Wall
Street goes on. Flowers grow.
They still pick up the garbage. Evil
people who should have died
long ago still suck blood.
It all amazes me! My love
for you and your love
for me always amazed me.
And I pray your spirit
finds rest from
the world that killed
you.
What I want to know is where can I offer
myself up? What mountain do I climb?

© Doug Draime

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SLEEPING WITHOUT YOU

For Carol

I toil with these damp sheets
in your absence
Hello to Newport Beach
Hello to Moe’s
Hello to our spot
by the
black driftwood,
down the South Beach in a cave
calling our names,
through the mist of sea
Hello to the woman poet, who’s
name escapes me, but her poems
of rage still rattle and shake
my being,
from the rocky coast of Oregon
Hello to the mock opulence of
the Shilo Inn, and the bed
we shared, the sheets soaked
with our cum, the sheets soaked with
our divine and filthy sweat,
soaked with the sea from our bodies,
drenched in our spirits
Hello to the grains of sand, the
universe between your
naked toes,
as you walk along the surf
Hello to you
Hello to you
I woke thinking of you,
my sheets damp and musty

© Doug Draime

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