Several thousand years after the flood, <\/p>\n Requests To The Muse<\/strong><\/p>\n Come rattle my cage. Come rattle my cage. Open my chest, eyes, <\/p>\n Tin Cans<\/strong> I was 15 or 16 <\/p>\n Sometimes<\/strong><\/p>\n sometimes it points to the sky <\/p>\n By Doug Draime<\/strong>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":119,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-18634","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18634","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/119"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=18634"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18634\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18634"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18634"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18634"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nNoah parked the ark in the New York
\nharbor, got off to get a chili dog
\nat Nathan’s
\non Coney Island, took a cruise on the
\nStaten Island Ferry, and won 40 thousand
\ndollars in Atlantic City at the crap table. His wife. his sons, and
\nhis son’s wives were all still dead asleep
\non the ark. Noah had drugged them with massive doses of
\nPamelor, Vicodin, and Effexor, so he could
\nget a little R&R, alone, without the
\ndemands of domesticity. Everything<\/em> was
\nbeginning to annoy and outrage him on the ark. The daily
\nrut of keeping all the animals fed
\nand clean, and all the shit mopped up
\nwas a 24\/7 job in itself; they had to do it in
\nin 8 hour shifts. The constant bickering between the women
\nwas becoming unbearable. And, for the last
\ncouple hundred years, his sons had developed
\nthe bizarre habit of walking in on Noah and his wife, Mrs. Noah, when
\nthey were drunk and fucking, which had caused
\nhis wife not to get drunk, and fuck
\nhim, she just shut him off. Noah stayed away
\nfrom the ark for several weeks, going from
\nparty to party at nights,
\nand playing the stock market during the days. He came back
\nto the ark a rich and satisfied man, only to be
\nappalled by the fact that no one had made the slightest effort to clean
\nup the animal shit. He knew what had to be done, and
\nthrew himself right into it. When he was finished, there
\nwas not a hint, a spot, a trace, or a whisper of
\ncreature doo-doo. One clean ark, he determined! Then he drugged
\nthem all again, fucked his sleeping wife, rented a car and drove to
\nHollywood, where
\nhe is to this day contemplating that voice that
\nwas booming from the sky thousands of years ago.<\/p>\n
\nI am in here somewhere
\nWashing dishes, doing laundry,
\nOr vacuuming the floor.
\nArguing over what the local
\nNews means by fair weather<\/em>.
\nLost in domestic pointlessness,
\nWhich screams for worship
\nAnd souls to lynch<\/p>\n
\nProd me out of here.
\nShow me some hope,
\nA glimmer of anarchy.
\nMake me a poem to stop the
\nDeadening roar of the machine.
\nStill the rumble of complacency,
\nBattering down around me like
\nWar mongering politics.
\nHold me close with your true
\nAnd tough love.<\/p>\n
\nEars and pineal gland.
\nFree the groin and the heart.
\nStand me on a cliff overlooking
\nThe Caribbean sea
\nAnd never let go of my hand.
\nShow me something<\/em>, show me
\nSome hope, a glimmer of anarchy.<\/p>\n
\nIn Memory Of Ray Charles<\/em><\/p>\n
\nwhen you were helped
\nfrom the stage in
\nIndianapolis, mumbling
\nincoherently and later
\narrested for \u201cnarcotics possession”,
\npartying at the Claypool Hotel.
\nOn that night I was only a 100 miles away
\nin Vincennes,
\nplaying \u201cWhat’d I Say” at full volume
\non my 45 RPM,
\nusing 2 large empty potato chip cans
\nas conga drums.
\nDazed, and a little messed up
\nfrom some Thunderbird wine I had
\nsmuggled up to my room.
\nAnd more than a little bummed-out
\nover having missed seeing you.
\nHalf way through the song, my grandfather
\nflung the door open,
\nyelling at me to turn that nigger shit down<\/em>.
\nThe next day after I heard about your bust,
\nI came home from school
\ngot out my cans and played you again,
\nat full volume, finishing off the wine.
\nNo one was home and I played that song
\nat least 15 times.
\nThat afternoon changed me forever, man.
\nBut the wine, with just a little food on my stomach,
\nmade me sleepy and I took a long nap.
\nI had a dream I’d made it to your concert,
\nthat you played your full set fully conscious,
\nwith 3 encores, and you were not<\/em> arrested afterwards –
\nperish the thought.
\nAnd the next morning you were given the key to the city
\nand a lavish gala dinner
\nput on by the Indiana chapter of the KKK,
\nbowing and scrapping at your feet.<\/p>\n
\nof blue pointing like a bird
\ndog. sometimes it buries itself
\ndeep in the nothingness
\nof political thinking. sometimes
\nit screams through the black
\nblack lies once told by you
\nand I. sometimes it just sits
\nthere like J.Edgar Hoover
\nwith a cheap tape recorder
\nplotting your death. sometimes
\nit spends years adding up numbers
\nin an attempt to round off
\ninfinity. sometimes it hides
\nin the couch with change
\nfrom 100’s of pockets.
\nsometimes it burns and burns
\nthe trees we can’t see the
\nforest for. sometimes
\nit runs like a out of control
\ndriver less locomotive down a
\nsteep mountain pass.
\nsometimes it stands trendy poets
\nup against the wall of
\ntimeless literature and shoots them.
\nsometimes it lances boils on the
\nbutts of opossums. sometimes it checks
\ninto motels under the names of
\nCurly, Moe and Larry. sometimes it
\nloves beauty for the right reasons.
\nsometimes it can name every
\npainting in the Chicago Art Museum
\nblindfolded. sometimes it is impossible
\nto decode with extra sensory perception
\nor any other kind of perception.
\nsometimes it breaks your heart. sometimes
\nit plans wars on planets in
\ndistant galaxies. sometimes it
\nwhittles exquisite little angels
\nout of cherry wood. sometimes it stands on
\nits head and imitates Erica Jong.
\nsometimes it captures butterflies
\nthen sets them free in the Pope’s
\nbedroom. sometimes it goes into
\ntirades over the absurdity of
\ncollective consciousness. sometimes it
\nteaches law students at Harvard how to make
\ntiny gas chambers. sometimes it stumbles around
\nin Dante’s Inferno selling copies of
\nMilton’s Paradise Lost. sometimes it poses
\nas P.T. Barnum standing behind
\na billboard trying to explain the difference
\nbetween propaganda and advertising.
\nsometimes it wishes on a star. sometimes
\nit pretends to be a tug boat on the
\nMississippi in 1859. sometimes it’s
\na relief. sometimes it surfaces
\nin London claiming it never knew
\nthe gun was loaded. sometimes it
\nwhirls like a ballet
\ndancer in the middle of
\na completely empty Times
\nSquare. sometimes it simply
\nis not there regardless of what
\nblind faith may say. sometimes
\nit counts all the hairs on your
\nhead then splits them. sometimes
\nit can be caught adjusting the
\ncolor control on the telescope at
\nthe Griffith Observatory
\nsometimes it
\npeters out before you do. sometimes
\nit gets solar activity
\nto disrupt tv transmissions. sometimes
\nit resembles a dove
\nflying above. sometimes it shoots out
\nstreet lights.
\nsometimes it never never stands
\nin a certain place overlooking
\nthe Hudson river. sometimes it
\nhas no remorse. sometimes it shines!
\nsometimes it rolls around in history.
\nsometimes it’s as lonely as a
\ngrave. sometimes it sky drives in
\nthe Grand Canyon. sometimes it
\ncan be heard giving a testimony on true
\nlove at the Taj Mahal. sometimes it takes
\npictures of fat men eating. sometimes
\nit fastens itself on the
\nback of poor judgment. sometimes it holds to
\ntruths that are self evident. sometimes it wanders
\naround in the wilderness for 40 years missing
\nthe way out repeatedly. sometimes it’s out of
\nfocus. sometimes it has no reason
\nfor being. sometimes it foams at the
\nmouth then spits up into oblivion. sometimes
\nit hammers invisible nails into
\nsmog, sometimes it simply is! sometimes it
\nsets a course for Easter Island. sometimes
\nit walks the floors at Graceland. sometimes
\nit has a way of fooling the wisest of men.
\nsometimes it leaks information to
\nexpired newspapers. sometimes it
\nhas no way of coping. sometimes it
\ncircles the covered wagons. sometimes it knows no
\nlimits. sometimes it climbs mountains
\ndressed in a tuxedo. sometimes it
\nis released from bondage. sometimes it is
\nfunctional for a few minutes.
\nsometimes it divides nations,
\nsometimes it
\nshimmers on the moonlit water. sometimes it runs a
\nrace with stolen shoes. sometimes it pauses
\nfor applause. sometimes it deals cards
\nfrom the bottom of the deck. sometimes it alters
\nevents for diabolical purposes. sometimes it is
\nyour friend. sometimes it jumps like a
\njack rabbit into the red moon. sometimes it moves
\naround the bases like a 90 year old Babe Ruth.<\/p>\n![\"doug-draime\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2010\/01\/doug-draime.jpg\")
\nABOUT THE AUTHOR<\/strong>
\nDoug Draime<\/strong> emerged as a presence in the ‘underground’ literary movement in the late 1960’s in Los Angeles. Most recent books include: Knox County <\/em>(Kendra Steiner Editions) and Los Angeles Terminal: Poems 1971-1980. <\/em>(Covert Press). Forthcoming: a full-length collection, Farrago Soup<\/em> coming out from Coatlism Press, as well as two chaps: Rock ‘n Roll Jizz<\/em> (Propaganda Press) and Boulevards Of Oblivion <\/em>(Tainted Coffee Press). He is also looking for a publisher for a large collection, over 300 pages (1967-2007), that he is calling Transmissions From The Underground<\/em>. He currently lives in the foothills of Oregon.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"![\"doug-draime1\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2010\/01\/doug-draime1-150x150.jpg\")
Several thousand years after the flood,
\nNoah parked the ark in the New York
\nharbor, got off to get a chili dog
\nat Nathan’s
\non Coney Island, took a cruise on the
\nStaten Island Ferry, and won 40 thousand
\ndollars in Atlantic City at the crap table. His wife. his sons, and
\nhis son’s wives were all still dead asleep
\non the ark. Noah had drugged them with massive doses of
\nPamelor, Vicodin, and Effexor, so he could
\nget a little R&R, alone…<\/p>\n