Doug Draime,

 

 

Free Verse Questioning The Insane Stranded on a highway in Rogue River, Oregon; pounding on the keys and hitchhiking, at age 44, up and down it for work, beer and groceries. The poems coming like a disease, keeping me weak, sweating, and shut up in the room for weeks at a time. Smoking grass, drunk, masturbating, writing and ... insane. If you’d asked me who the president of the united states was, I wasn’t sure. Was it Robert E. Lee, W.C. Fields, Al Capone?   This poem was first published in The James River Poetry Review, Volume 1, Number 2, 2000.     earth bound: world moving always in the skull of time, rattling our rotting white washed bones at each other: bone upon bone war upon war earth upon earth spirit upon spirit blood upon blood hate upon hate twisting perpetually in the slavery of lies: we do the deed dead upon dead, dead upon dead. dead upon the dead     Road Gnats Not so the sun would know the difference, between flower & weed at 105 degrees. I make the distinction for the flaming planet * Often the steel dust from the steel mills would settle on the windows so thick you couldn’t see out. I only knew this from inside a neighbor’s apartment.. my aunt cleaned our windows so clear each day, you could see the Allegheny mountains in the distance * If the choosing is yours then the choice is mine, hopefully ignoring what we chose. * “The core of this, how does one get to the core?” Einstein bellowed, smashing his clinched fist down on the laboratory table, sending the test tubes, notebooks & microscope flying. It was the first time he’d made contact. * Numb is the hand into blackness reaching for the light out the other side * The night is peaceful & my heart soars. crickets chant my name. * She: He only said it         once He:   Once? i thought you         said it was 3 or         4 times? She: Well, maybe I         did. did I? Well,         it was just once,         really. he just         said it once. He:  You obviously took it         to heart. She: What do you mean? He:   You’re a living          example! * The movement must have an ending, though the concert master is jabbing at the wrong scale, commanding the sound of wrong notes.     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. This poem was first published in Angelflesh # 9, 1998.     Nonpolitical Poetry The thing abut poetry is you can say anything you damn well please in any way you please you can say fuck this political system you can say anyone who at this point in time that does not think the american way of life is dead wrong is a sad and lost soul you may think this is a political statement but you’re dead wrong too ‘cause this is about as nonpolitical as it gets   This poem was first published in The 3rd Page, an online 'zine  in 2003.