Happiness is Poetry: Doug Draime
I love Doug Draime’s work, the writing is good but the attitude is better, and even more than that is the honesty that comes through. I’ve always been drawn to poets who don’t sugarcoat what they see in the world but come at it full and hard. I first encountered Doug’s work in The Outlaw Poetry site. When I first started writing poetry I figured it had to be terrible because it didn’t rhyme or talk about the beauty of nature or God. It was discovering poets like Bukowski, Draime, Sapphire and more recently, Warsan Shire that made me realize my perception of poetry had been severely limited by my education.
Here are several pieces by Doug Draime, have a read, if he catches your fancy you find his work for sale on Amazon or more directly for his chapbook Dusk with Carol
and other chapbooks through KSE as well as a selected collection from 2012 that I’ve just ordered.
One Day’s Settlement of Chaos
The dream still lives in the
center of chaos, despite
the continual bombardment
in the world around me,
of people
with Hannibal and Hitler-
like ethics, plundering and
devouring the earth.
Yet, the flowers
reach up, purple and yellow
approaching the
fence top, in glorious
pure beauty.
I relax on the porch, drinking a
beer, thinking of the amazing
contradiction.
Illuminating Information
They talked about “art” as
…..if it was some
…..perfect glistening
…..thing like a diamond
…..after the mining
…..and cleaning
I swept the floor
…..as they talked
…..I took out the trash
…..washed the dirty glasses
“Art” without the blood
…..and torment
…..Mickey Mouse
…..without the mouse
…..turds.
After they left I
…..cleaned the ashtrays
…..scrubbed the toilet
…..waxed the floor
…..did what I had to do.
“Art” had nothing
…..to do with their lives
…..“art” was a good movie
…..a concert in the park
…..created and performed
…..by people with masters degrees
…..and winter homes
…..in Arizona.
I clocked out
…..bought a couple beers
…..and went home
…..tomorrow was another day
…..of illuminating information
Literary Expert
The guy was an “expert”
……….on poetry.
He was a famous poet &
………the magazine quotes
him saying that a poem “can’t be
……….totally honest, or it’s
………………..not a poem.”
He said good poetry is partly
……….honest and party bullshit
…..(I’m paraphrasing). He has taught
at a college somewhere in Iowa for
…..30 years & has
……….20 or so books out,
& he doesn’t have a brain in his fucking head. But he
…..doesn’t offend
anyone & I’m certain
people nod knowingly when he reads
………those little gems.
Chances are he has never written anything close to
honest poetry & therefore, never had to risk anything,
…..except maybe in the “literary” sense
…..(whatever the hell that is).
Everyone has a right to their own opinion about
………what poetry is suppose to be,
even if they’re lying to themselves, because
of course, that’s what good poetry
………is all about
Pretending the Apple Pie is Fresh
Pretending what can only be pretended
in the hollow cave of
a diseased mind, and laughing
like a crater on the moon: dead and
deep and treacherous.
War mongers and whore mongers
dine with presidents and kings
on lavish tables.
Meteors and broken stars are buried
beneath the junkyards of the world.
Dignity is something sold on back streets
and in dark crevices.
No matter how often flowers wither and
die in the presence of politicians,
no matter what the earth is destined to
spew out of its bowels, no matter what price
the death of innocence,
the horror continues unchecked by the
appointed and elected guardians of society.
Legions march heads-up past the viewing stand
where the decked-out
dignitaries are seated with chests full of medals,
wearing thousand dollar suits, their wives
smiling beside them
like vampy Vegas whores.
The Suits Won’t Go Away
I’ve seen these Suits
with dead faces,
since I was a
kid. I remember
closing my eyes tight,
after looking
at an insurance salesman
or a preacher ( how do
you tell the difference? ),
and praying he would not
be there
when I opened
my eyes.
I still do it at times with
CEO’s in their
designer suits, and generals
in battle dress: death arrayed
in ribbons across
their breast.
I shut my eyes tight still,
at morticians and talk show hosts,
and lying politicians,
with a hint of color in their
Porky Pig neckties.
Not to say, though, that all
men who have worn or who wear
suits are on my shit list.
Camus looked fantastic in a suit.
Presley wore suits with an unmistakable cool.
Miles and Coltrane and Kenneth Patchen
wore suits.
And Einstein wore a black rumpled suit
with impeccable class.
I admire men like that who happened to
have worn suits!
Men who have something to sell
other than
war, mind control and
spiritual stagnation.
I know the Suits will not go away,
no matter how long
I close my eyes and pray.
It’s been the same since
the white race rose to power.
The Huns were Suits, and down
the line, Hitler.
Many of our leaders imitate him,
wearing his Suit of death:
perfect fit, no tailoring
needed.
Other Posts You Might Enjoy!
Happiness is Poetry: Ashe Vernon
Happiness is Poetry: Warsan Shire
Happiness is Poetry: Sapphire
The Ministry of Happiness 