I watched through the mausoleum
window, as a long table
was placed in the middle of the tomb
by 5 well-known poets.
They took stacks of chapbooks from boxes
and stacked them up on it The tomb was strewn
with whiskey bottles and beer cans.
The death chamber was filthy. Something
nasty and sticky stuck to
the concrete floor, with hundreds of small press
magazines messed-up in the goo.
On each cover was a picture of their
idol guzzling a can of beer.
They huddled over the reading matter
on the table like whooping cranes, their necks
nearly parallel with the table.
I heard the name of their idol several times,
as a box of chapbooks was picked-up,
then tossed out on one of the stacks like
fish in a fish market. A lot of angry mumbling,
debating. One of the 5 would pickup a chapbook
and mention the poet’s name who wrote it. The first one
held up and discussed was a 30 year woman
about her sex life and drinking and drug habits.
Someone said that if there was a crown
passed down by their idol, she should be the one it was
passed on to. A Royal Poet! The second poet held up for debate
to walk the streets his idol had walked. And he
started drinking heavily and dating a
whore and druggie named Sugar Pie. Then he had pictures of himself
embracing and humping his idol’s gravestone at Forrest Lawn
and proudly posted them over the internet.
They began chanting the nick name of their idol, “Spanky,
Spanky, Spanky”. Black hoods and candles were being lit,
and fresh cans of beer for the poet/judges. And all their
faces started to take on a zombie stare, spittle dripping from their mouths.
One held up the chapbook of a poet, who had just recently
stuck a 45 in his mouth and canceled
his own ticket, because of his drinking and
miserable life. Did it in his mother’s house with her gun
The chanting grew intense and 2 of the zombie-poets acted out a
from one of their idol’s stories.
Another one of them, watching the fight spotted me at the window and
they all turned to give me the zombie stare, long fangs appearing.
I turned and run into the gloom of
the graveyard, the zombie-poets chasing me still chanting his name,
“Spanky, Spanky, Spanky.” The dream ended, me running
out of there, looking over my shoulder
into their zombie stares. After I woke up this morning,
i checked the internet and at the public library
for any information on the meaning of mausoleum dreams
and found nothing. I’ll go back and look under zombie-poets ... with long fangs.
Suicide Of An Ambitious Poet
When name dropping
but as skilled
as he was.
at that one,
it too, didn’t bring
him the fame
the praise and
So, he took
Mark Twain quote
When the newspapers
“The reports of my death have been
That gave the poet the idea.
He, together with
his wife and
sent out e-mails
that he had
shot himself dead
in the head
trite and mediocre
( 1920 to present )
The guy who sat
in the 10th
the same guy who
to you at
a high school
in the back
with your ex-
Keeping Up With The Lifshins
I have to make haste to
Keep up with the Lifshins
This poem is my humble
Attempt in that regard
I’m in kind of a rush
Lifshins are so many places at once
There must be
How do they do it
What is the secret of their
I know you don’t
That was, uh, a rhetorical
Sorry I gotta go
Get this to Post Office
Before it closes
Fuck! all the Lifshins probably have
Post Office software in their computers!
So, shit, just forget you
Read this poem
Doug Draime's latest book is "Spiders And Madmen" (Scintillating Publications, 2006). He began
publishing in the 'underground' and small press in the late 1960's, while living in
part of the notorious
continues to appear in magazines, newspapers, and online journals worldwide. Currently living in the
southern foothills of the Siskiyou mountain range in