Critical Poetry—Doug Draime (Ashland, OR)                                                 For more highly critical verse, see Critical Poems.    
 

I'm working with a 3rd grader, a kid named Noah. I'm more or less his Holodeck, like on Star Trek.   I get him out of the classroom when he's disruptive, which is often, when the teacher can't handle him. I'm teaching him basketball, playing board games, telling him jokes, letting him choose his own adventure, as long as it's not harmful to him, or others, or, shit, even to me—his IEP says he's violent. He's definitely full of rage, and there have been a couple threats to the teacher, and one little girl, which is all I've observed that hints of violence. The system is fucked as all systems we think are real in this world, and the school system in the ole U S of A is one of the most fucked on every level from kindergarten to grad school. Kids are coming from drug and violent and sex-abusing parental units, some of which need to have the children removed from the home for the kids protection. The work itself, though, is a snap.

Resting Aging Bones

I really was attempting to

pay attention,

the best I could, to focus

on the young poet

reading his poems.

I hadn’t sleep well

in several days, my legs

aching from all

the walking

I was doing looking for

some kind of work.

48, let me clue you in,

is no age to be

without income and

nowhere to go

to call your own.

I needed a place to sit down

and rest for awhile.

The poet was trying

to be poetic, his poems

full of run of the mill

similes, that contained

no fortitude

of spirit, or passion.

And I’m sorry to say,

I fell into 

a deep sleep.

I don’t know for how long,

but a college coed

stinking of patchouli oil and

sweat, shocked me awake.

“You’re snoring. That’s really

rude.” she said.

I looked up and the poet

was glaring 

at me.

All 20 eyes of the 10 people

sitting in the

folding chairs

were glaring at me

I said, nodding at the poet,

“Sorry about that. Good luck

with those similes, kid.”

And I got up and walked

out of the bookstore

and down the street

to the nearest bar,

where I ordered

a small pitcher of beer

with $3 of

my last $10.

I found a table in the corner,

sat down

and immediately

fell back to sleep.

Karen, the bartender,

was kind enough to let me

sleep till

closing time.

American Commercials on the Telly

Gluttonous eyes

Fire and brimstone devils

All up in your face

Bellies full

Of rotting democracy

The air reeking

Of the worse

Fucking disease ever 

Spread by their

Ravenous greedy

Wars & vicious lies &

Delusions

Of the collective

Ego bitch

Of America

Money in the Bank, Beer in the Fridge

                                                            for the  Bukowski-ites

give it up

go to rehab

get a job

dry out

go to school

join the army

get a life

run away with

the

fucking

circus

none of

you

drunks

and

druggies

can out

buk, the

buk

give it

the fuck

up

I Would

I would shoot a bullet through

the heart of America,

but it’s already dead

I would set aflame the Bill of Rights,

the Constitution, and Jefferson’s

glorious Declaration of Independence,

but they’ve already

been torched.

The greasy scum of the ashes

covering the windows of

our betrayed souls, and blocking

out the sun.