Other Poems by:

Doug Draime

Thoreau And The Indians

Thoreau called them
savages  from
the English and
French. They
say he didn’t
really mean
anything by it. That
that was just a
common term used to identify
the indigenous people
of this continent,
implemented by the
Europeans who had
invaded it. 

But I wonder if anyone back then 
ever called a spade a spade
Did anyone ever challenge
this and other white supremacy
thinking written in his
masterpiece, Walden. 
Did anyone ever get up in 
Henry David’s hairy mug
and lecture him on the ignorance
of such a terminology expressed
toward an entire race of people 
Did Ralph Waldo Emerson
love him enough as a friend 
to ever point out
this obvious
blind spot
in Thoreau’s pristine contemplation
of  justice
and social disobedience?

Jumping Through A Frog’s Ass

The big shot editor at the
small press
was hardly impressed
by my stunt.
He wanted me to change 
the title to Dog’s Ass.
I had to laugh
and put on my boots:
the shit was getting deep..
Jumping Through A Dog’s Ass?
Come on,
give me a fucking break!

Memory Of Vincent

He had everything down
to an exact science,
he said, as he arranged
his sparse belongings
in his cardboard dwelling,
to make room for me.
There was a stack of
newspapers in the corner
and a picture of a little girl
in a small silver frame.
sitting on top.
It was a snug fit but there was
more room in there than I had thought.
Once I was in and turned to face out,
I noticed a large backpack
and a small Coleman stove neatly packed
in  a corner by the entrance.
He pulled out a pint of cheap whiskey,
that we’d polled our money to buy.
We shared the bottle,
talking about the hostility
of downtown L.A. cops,
but nothing about ourselves;
Nixon was president
and we both hated him.
The rest of the time we sat quietly drinking and
watching the nine to fivers
drive down Hill street for home,
without a bit of envy.

Not Hip Enough To Read That Crap

he writes poems in a bebop rhythm
your could tap your foot
or pound out a beat on a coffee table to them

his poems let you know in no uncertain terms
that he knew Ginsberg, Corso, and Kerouac
pimped for Hunter S. when Hunter S. flew
into NYC to appear on David Lettermen

and Kerouac slept with his great aunt 
under the shadow of a red harvest moon
between two 400 foot  redwoods
in 1951 in a sleeping bag
that smelled of hibernating possums

it was Bill Burroughs who rocked him
to sleep
reading Uncle Remus
as a storm ripped through a small Pennsylvania farm town
where his mother lives now hiding 
under the witness protection program

the poems he writes in bebop rhythm
the kind you could tap your foot
or pound out a beat on the coffee table to them,
are full of so  many names of hipsters, movie stars,
poets and gangster innuendo, that it all made me jittery
and I realized I just wasn’t hip enough
to read that crap

and I put the book back in the envelope it came in
and stuck it under a stack of jazz CD’s
it was the hippest thing I could think of

Wanna See My Fast Draw? Ok, Now, You Wanna See It Again?

I have to laugh
at these
proclaiming &
defining themselves

these poets
the stars
of their own

legends in their
own minds

with their guns
which shoot blanks
like stooges

just like Don Knotts
& Tim Conway
ridding out of town
after a botched
bank robbery

sitting backwards on
their horses
not sure whether
they’re coming
or going

in Jimmy Breslin’s
“The Gang That Couldn’t 
Shoot Straight”

but these poet “outlaws”
are even funnier
in the seriousness
of their

though much less

Gracie Slick At 23 And Me On LSD

It was enough to see her face
burnt red like the red
sand of Tucson; fluorescent to
the extreme. Her eyes and manner
of movement across the plateau,
as morning sun burst forth like
a birth of primal ooze
of reds, grays and blues.
This beautiful child-woman with
high tone blacklite gymnastics,
pushing the point to a 
stagnating purple, all ablaze
all ablaze!  She spoke through
colors splashing  day-glo paint
on me and several others,
the sound of her voice multi-layered
Her words weave, winding
binding, nailing down
no directly dialectical explanation
of her continual blinding sensual,
psychedelic state, and the words were flying,
they were in the air  bounding in twirling,
swinging waves of acrylic and oil base
paint, with a water color glow.
Drawing no response from my ongoing
questioning; though she did, standing
firmly placed in one precise, if not
general area of the wobbling
space we shared, she did for half or third of a
second, smile.  Her smile was like
an amphitheater full of strobe lights
all on steady fiercely quick blinks.  When
the music stopped, it was at this point
I realized the point was null, whatever the point was
to begin with, and as she passed close
to me, I offered her some suntan lotion,
10 thousand milligrams of vitamin C,
my ultra thriving libido and every
fucking drop of blood in my body.

After A Strange Conversation With A Member Of Congress

You give me your schedule and
I’ll give you mine and we’ll stand
on the hill overlooking the concentration
camp.  You born without feet
under the American flag in
your child molesting grandfather’s
house in east Jersey: hair like
insane human meat  shrieking
in the hell of pity.  The shadows 
dank, reeking
of the history of other
feet less souls.
You say you’ve read Kafka and the Bible,
and walked on burning coals.
t’s a way to cope,
lying to yourself
But everybody knows
you ain’t got no feet.

Crucifixion & Resurrection

Hammering down human streets
with cosmic alloy:spiritual nails
into all our bloodied
souls.  One on one the search
from the connection
of mind
and God.  Spirit contact
deep into the way back;
excavating the true path,
and knowing it is more than a
savior dying on a cross.

Editor Gives Advice On How To Get Published In His Magazine

	   Write about
           the fancy 
           you made
           on roller
           you were
           a kid, or

           the color
           of coffee
           with cream
           or without:
           espresso, latte,

           Write about
           the pubic
           of the
           who broke
           your heart,        

           but leave
           to Oliver
           and the

The Imperialist

           He glides in through
           the night    
           like a Pteranodon,
           flying slowly
           through nuclear
           with wings as
           heavy as Africa
               his eyes
           redder than the
               devil¹s tongue.

Literary Critic

	   She said
           my poems
           were too blunt,
           thinking,  and    
           She handed 
           me a book
           Robert Bly;
           after she left
           I discovered
           she stole
           my last joint
           and also my last $5.
           But, hell, the fucking
           cunt could¹ve
           been right about
           my writing, though I had.
           to send the book
           back to her,
           (it was too deep for me)
           wrapped in her 
           dirty red panties

Success Is A Simple Pleasure

           I knew I¹d
               MADE IT
           last night
           when after
           a poem,
           I walked out
           and pissed
           off the
           deck of
           my house
               under the
           mountains, the
           moon, and
           Milky Way.

Public Eye

           I saw innocence stood up against the wall and murdered
           I saw hearts burst from lack of love
           I saw minds drowned in oceans of lies
           I saw dignity shredded like paper cups
           I saw spirits torched and blazing
           I saw space containing only disgrace
           I saw a million ways to sell the soul
           I saw truth butchered in the stockyards of greed
           I saw God hammered to a slab of wood                 

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