Friday, September 29, 2017

John D Robinson writes


DOUBLE SHREDDED
 
I love Doug Draime’s poem
about one of his women
who double shredded a
sheaf of 40 of his poems,
put the pieces of paper into
a plastic bag and set fire
to it on his front lawn
and he sat down and began
writing a poem out of
spite for this incident:
fuck, every damn poem
I write is done with a
similar feeling.

Image result for doug draime paintings

1 comment:

  1. Like other writers, Doug Drain usually provided a bio to accompany his poems. One of his read, "Mr. Draime lives in a tourist trap town, full of redneck, pretentious, greedy individuals, yet he maintains his sanity by watching Judge Judy. Also, as long as you're asking, he'd like to clear up some misinformation for the FBI: 'I honestly, truly, pinkyswear, never REALLY met Abbie Hoffman,' says Draime. 'I only saw him from a distance that one time.'" He began writing as a teenager in Vincennes, Indiana, studied philosophy and creative writing at the University of Chicago and theater at the Fine Arts Academy; served served for two years in the US army infantry during the Vietnam War, then became active in the anti-war movement when he moved to Los Angeles in the summer of 1967 after his discharge. He studied film and anthropology at Los Angeles City College and briefly pursued a career as an actor before becoming an integral part of the Los Angeles underground literary community in the 1960s, along with Charles Bukowsky. In 1981 he moved to Ashland, Oregon, and worked for the Ashland Unified School District as a Special Education Assistant until his retirement in 2005. He was a movie buff, an avid reader, and a collector of rare books and antiques. Before his death in 2015, his poems, short stories, and plays continued to be published internationally in over 400 chapbooks, magazines, newspapers, anthologies, broadsides, and on-line journals.


    WAITING ON A POEM


    Is not like waiting for a plane, or a train,

    or a malfunctioning old Greyhound bus at 4 A.M. Waiting for

    a poem is not similar at all to biding

    your time with a book on a shiny oak bench outside a women’s

    clothing boutique, in a glitzy decadent American mall

    for your wife, or your girl friend to hurry up

    and finish her shopping. No, waiting for a poem is

    life or death – with no stammering bullshit in the margins and no

    compromise possible. Either it’s burning bamboo

    shoots under your toes, or your toes in white sand,

    moist and cool on a Caribbean night. Indeed, waiting on a poem

    will rip your heart out by the arteries, or it will dance with

    ecstatic joy on all the empty graves of earth.


    STARDUST CLUB


    She said she had
    my number. But
    I told her
    my number was still
    being calculated

    by numerous
    committees of
    mathematicians
    and a large
    assortment of
    Vegas odds makers.

    In other words,
    the beads were still
    flying up and down
    the abacus
    at incredible speeds.

    She giggled
    seductively, smiled
    and moved in
    closer, her hand
    rubbing my dick
    through my jeans.

    Her mouth
    and tongue on my neck,
    whispering,
    “You know what number
    I’m talkin’ about.”

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