Doug Draime Part 2

Here is the rest.-MDG

Someday I Will Write A Poem That Will Flood The World



And I will own all the
arks, boats, ships,
rafts, and canoes,
and tug boats, ferries,
all forms of water transportation.

People will have to come
to me for their means
of survival.

The stubborn and destitute ones
will drown in my poem
sinking to the bottom,
screeching like anchors on
rusty
chains.

The rest of humanity will plead
for cut-rate discounts. But fuck them,
I’ll make them pay out
the ass. No rainbows
this time.


------------------------------------------------------------------------

Protest Organizer



Century City in
1967, or 8, very stoned
to protest
Lyndon Johnson’s
speech. We were
among the
crowd the cops
were pushing back
and yelling at us
to cease and desist.
She took my hand
and placed it
between her legs
up her lily white
sun dress. When the
speech was over
she drove me home,
to my place on
Lexington in Hollywood.
And she jacked me
off and I came in her mouth.
When i finally got
outta the car, she was
insistent that I take not
one but two, Stop The War
t-shirts.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jerry From 13th Street


There was the perpetual
Pall Mall cigarette
hanging from his mouth.
And he was always
picking on kids
smaller and younger
than him.
His wooden leg and
foot clanged and
rattled as
he walked. It had happened
when he was twelve,
trying to jump
into a boxcar
of a moving train. Two of
his friends had
made it, one chickened
out. Jerry miscalculated
his run and came up
short, reaching for the edge
of the boxcar’s
open door, and the motion
of the train pulled
him under. Somehow he was
able to keep one leg
free, with the rest of his body,
from slipping under the
steel wheels. Every kid
in the neighborhood
was afraid
of him, every kid but me.
To me he was just a pimpled-face
fat kid with a wooden leg.
One day he was coming
down the alley
with a couple of his friends. I was
fifteen, but already well over
6 feet and a solid 175 pounds.
He and his friends were
maybe sixteen, overweight,
and a couple of inches shorter.
They were all three smoking
as they passed..

Jerry sneered, flipping his Pall Mall
at me. It hit my t-shirt and
bounced to the ground. They
stopped and were laughing,
calling me a
dumb ass and a son-of-abitch.
I didn’t say a word, I just
quickly walked right up
into their faces. They were
startled and
took a step backwards.
My uncle had lost a leg in WW2
and I knew what the
weakest part
of a wooden leg was. I was an
arm’s distance away
from Jerry, who was
lighting another cigarette,
still sneering. I turned my body
slightly and kicked
his wooden knee.
He seemed to fall instantaneously,
tumbling over
to his left,
in a barrage of yelling and
clanging. His friend, who was
standing to the right
of him, took a step forward,
as if he was going
to take a punch at me. I swung
wildly, hitting him
somewhere around the
collarbone, and I was winding up
another, when he turned
and ran down the alley. The other
kid was faster,
passing his friend easily.

I watched them run
out of the alley to the sidewalk.
Jerry was still yelling and crying
on the ground, begging me
to help him up. I told him I wouldn’t
help him, but that I would
call his parents
when I got home. I left him laying
there crying, as I jumped
over the next door neighbor’s fence,
I walked across
their backyard into mine, went into
my house,
called Jerry’s parents and
told his mother that
he had had an accident and
was in the alley. My dad
overheard the conversation
and asked
what was going on.
I told him I had just kicked
the ass of Jerry from over
on 13th street. He laughed
and said it was
about time someone
cleaned that bastard’s plow.
That was the first time
I ever drank a beer
with my old man,
but not the last.


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Watch Their Castles Tumble


Not everyone wants
To hear the truth

Though everyone gives
It enough lip service

“Just be honest with me, “
they’ll say, “tell me the truth.”

Their eyes oozing sincerity
And openness.

So, you tell them the truth
And watch their castles tumble.
--------------------------------------------------------------------



Coming Down From The Mountain Unenlightened


We trudged down the mountain path
to the water
like warriors beaten.
Our whiskey bottles empty,
all of our mescaline eaten.
Five days without bathing, we threw
ourselves, filthy
and stinking, clothes and all,
into the ocean.
The two girls stripping down to
their panties and bras.

Thomas claimed he saw
a flying saucer.
Lucy swore she had
a brush with Big Foot
on a rocky ridge above the jade cliffs.
But the rest of us
knew that mescaline
was the cause.
And we mixed our trips
with a few cold beers
to level them out a little.

I laid in a foot of water
staring up at the mountain,
thinking how normal everything appeared.
After five days of
psychedelic musings
and discussions of
astral projection, change shifting and time
travel, nothing in the world
looked any different
We dried ourselves in the sun and
headed down 101 for home, still unenlightened.

New Poems By Doug Draime Part 1

In this editors humble opinion Doug Draime is one of the most important voices in underground literature today. His poems are refreshing, entertaining, and address what is really going on. Enjoy!-MDG

Doug Draime first emerged in the 'underground' literary movement in the late 1960's, in Los Angeles. Most recent books are: "Los Angeles Terminal: Poems 1971-1980 (Covert Press) and "Bones" (Kendra Steiner Editions). Forthcoming are,"Transmissions From The Underground" (d/e/a/d/b/e/a/t/ press) and "Farrago Soup" (Coatlism Press). His diverse range of writing, including: poems, short stories and plays, continue to appear in publications worldwide. He moved to the foothills of Oregon in 1981, where he still resides.

You Might As Well Dance Till The Fat Lady Sings

Tune in to the tuned out
Turn on to the turned off
It doesn’t Matter
Anyway you work it
You can’t please ‘em all
Who cares if you’ve written
40, 000 poems
Blind folded in a deep dark pit
Though you may be the
Last poet standing
Some poet-ego-enfant terrible
Will come along & bomb
You when you least expect it
All you can do is keep on keep on
Pounding those keys like freedom

Tune in to the tuned out
Turn on with the turned on
It can’t Matter
Anyhow you work it
You can only please yourself
Who cares if you’ve written
100, 000 poems
Blind folded in a pig stye
Though chances are you are the
Last real poet standing
Some poet-ego-enfant terrible
Will come down the road & shoot
You when you have your back turned
All you can do is keep on keeping on
Pounding those keys like freedom ringing

Tune out to the tuned in
Turn off to the turned on
It don’t Matter
Any time you work it
You can only please the moment
Who cares if you’ve written
420, 000 poems
Blind folded in a vat of pointlessness
Though the fact is you are the
Last poet with balls standing
Some poet-ego-enfant-terrible
Will stick the blade repeatingly into
You just as everything seems to be falling into place
All you must do is keep writing the truth as you see it.
Pounding those keys like freedom singing

-------------------------------------------------------

Blazing Sun

What good is a poet
who cannot dig a ditch

What purpose is a poem
that is not a blazing sun

What value is art
that does not rage at war

What importance is love
that is not fearless spirit

-------------------------------------------------

When Rock n’ Roll Was A Teenager

When rock n’ roll was a teenager,
Great Balls Of Fire
was throwing punches
at a man twice its age
on a gravel parking lot in
Westport, Illinois,
laughing and drinking Jim Beam
straight from
the bottle,
between ducks and jabs.

When rock n’ roll was a teenager,
Heartbreak Hotel
had its finger up the local car hop
after she closed down A&W for the night,
her hand around its hard dick,
pumping it slowly,
in the back seat at the drive-in movie,
Marlon Brando
in the Wild Ones
on the screen.

When rock n’ roll was a teenager,
Only The Lonely
was in the county jail locked up for
drunk and disorderly, reading
Tropic of Cancer and writing poems
of sex, rage, and revolution,
trying to conceive a way
to escape from jail by taking its own life,
but, oh, we all know, rock n’ roll
can never/will never die!

Part 2 coming up in a few days!-MDG

"AUT" and have done: Travis Johnson, St. Augustine; Kali, Philadelphia

North Florida : St. Augustine mixed media shaker and mover, TRAVIS JOHNSON reminded the ULA's FDW at one point that HP Lovecraft spent some quality writing time in the Ancient City and for good reason.
Well it all begins to fall into place, doesn't it.
This amazing creative livelihood reflected in Travis' performing in big experimental "noise" music projects in mostly underground outlets cooperatively and independently, his organizing and hosting the notorious
WEIRD FILM SOCIETY FESTIVAL OF ST. AUGUSTINE, his genuinely surreal verse of an accomplished degree, and especially amazing textured paintings, found object bricolage and constructions, goes without saying, yet at the same time crazy grace under pressure from a right wing privileged Jim Crow contempt from the vested interests of law enforcement and commerce in America's oldest city.
























&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&

From Philadelphia's West Bank, its cold flats, squatter strongholds, newly rehabbed tenements expensively falling down under the weight of corrupt utility company monopolies and red- line Immanencies find below samples of the experimental socio-real expressionist "autiste"
KALI MILES CLARK. A self determined alchemist and gypsy wanderer haling from the crossroads of the Great Smokey Mountains... she is currently showing her work at the Satellite Coffee House at 50th and Baltimore much of which incorporates encaustic, hot organic bees wax techniques where found substances are suspended and applied to photographs that have the general effect of illuminating the arte-fact...