Four Poems by Doug Draime

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


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


Scattered: Configurations Of Matter In Time And Space

Scattered in the pouch of a cross-eyed kangaroo at the Lincoln Park Zoo
Scattered across the melting sands of time
Scattered unrecognizable by those no one knows or wants to know
Scattered for the sake of the  mass gathering of betrayal’s blades
Scattered on the balcony by jacking off voyeurs calling themselves lovers
Scattered in wheat fields by drunken CEO’s of unbelievably corrupt corporations
Scattered on the desks of detectives in the Missing Persons department
Scattered inside coffins in little Italy stuffed with homemade sausages
Scattered in dusty, mournful, crowded rooms of those who think they are alive
Scattered in the words of unread suicide notes 
Scattered among the ruins of disillusioned illusions and other tricks of ancient mind
Scattered by beautiful and suntanned naked women wearing NY baseball caps
Scattered on the banks of deadly industrial waste streams, where nothing can live 
Scattered like confectionery sugar over the unmarked graves in Nam and Iraq
Scattered in the brain cells of memory in an Alzheimer trance
Scattered without any rhyme, reason. or compassionate order 
Scattered down the first base line at Dodger Stadium in a pouring thunder storm
Scattered and mixed in with the star dust in the reeking gutters of desolation row
Scattered and diseased in the smoldering ovens at Buchenwald
Scattered outside the walls of Jericho
Scattered in the men’s room at a bomb making plant next to McDonalds
Scattered in the humor and dissident barbs of a George Carlin routine
Scattered in all the movies that play reel to reel in our minds, lifetime after lifetime
Scattered in the dust and elitism of City Lights bookstore
Scattered in the pumping air and striving of the human heart


On The Outside Chance Of Light
The moon has a
classical huge
yellowness, in an otherwise
blackness of
universe; not a slight
flicker of light
anywhere the eyes
can reach. The only light
is the moonlight,
which shines down on souls
who are brutally
transported from
relative freedom
to chattel-captivity.
All diagrams in the blood printed
revulsion of political lies,
constructions of
betrayals and the most depraved murderers
imaginable. The foxhole
believers are those
just along for the ride: spiritual vampires,
assassins, generals, sell outs,
billionaires, bottom feeders, assorted thieves 
who all muddle up the muck of 
so-called reality. You can only trust
in the unspoken, the invisible, and
the truth in the yellow
light of the moon.

One Response to “Four Poems by Doug Draime”

  1. Ray Foreman Says:

    Same complaint I made the other day about another poem…too much. If the poet has a good point/subject, stay with it. I used to tell poets, punch, don’t pat.

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