Two Poems by Doug Draime

2 p.m.

He said he’d lost his mind
many years before
and that he was still looking
for it in all the same, insane places
He pushed the small pitcher
of beer he’d bought me closer
I poured a glass and held it up
for a toast, to bums and poets,
I said, touching his double shot of
Jim Beam with my glass of draft
He made a face. “I don’t know about
poets, fuck poets, but here’s
to bums who have lost their minds.”



Homeless Sellout With A PO Box

The odds were
against me, maybe
100 to 1
that they’d accept
any of the poems
I sent. Then one day
in my PO Box
a check for $25 and a note
saying they were
going to publish
one. The worst
one I submitted. But then,
what the hell
do I know
about poetry? I still think
Rod Mc Kuen
is a better poet than
John Ashbery. And Bob Dylan
has said more in one song than
William Carlos Williams said
in his entire
writing career. So, they were
publishing one of my poems,
one I didn’t
like much,
in their corporate magazine ...
with their large board of directors.
Well, I cashed their check, bought the
first real meal I’d had
in several days
and sent them some more crap.