LETTER OF MARQUE: ARTICLE THE THIRTY-FOURTH
More than the Alley | Doug Draime
Poetry
5½” x 8½” trade paperback
144 pages
$15.00
Interior Noise Press; Austin, TX
ISBN-10: 0981660665
ISBN-13: 978-0981660660
Available at interiornoisepress.com and on Amazon
Ah, Doug Draime. What to say about the man? He is a gem of the small press and his poems are bursts of fresh air among too many other gulps of same ol’, same ol’. This book — this beautiful, robust, necessary book — will not disappoint even the toughest of small press critics … a category I generally find myself gracing. So take it from a source who’s been around the indie press block a few times: Draime’s the real deal.
Interior Noise Press puts a lot of work and passion into their creations, and this collection is no exception. Cover to cover, it’s laid out beautifully, decently edited, and bound in sturdy trade paperback. Worth every cent for the words, of course, but definitely just for the packaging and (insane!) quantity of poems alone, if nothing else convinces you.
Mr. Draime weaves tales of bygone days with the best of ’em, from rock ‘n’ roll jukebox bars to back alleyways to memories of ’Nam, in poems that read almost as prose, short vignettes and stories broken into lines as sporadically as the man appears to be broken himself. He is the master of real, dingy, gory tales of life’s darkness and vivid, harrowing images, from men in factories sliced to death by sheet glass, to hookers and wasted women he simply cannot save from themselves,
5½” x 8½” trade paperback
144 pages
$15.00
Interior Noise Press; Austin, TX
ISBN-10: 0981660665
ISBN-13: 978-0981660660
Available at interiornoisepress.com and on Amazon
Ah, Doug Draime. What to say about the man? He is a gem of the small press and his poems are bursts of fresh air among too many other gulps of same ol’, same ol’. This book — this beautiful, robust, necessary book — will not disappoint even the toughest of small press critics … a category I generally find myself gracing. So take it from a source who’s been around the indie press block a few times: Draime’s the real deal.
Interior Noise Press puts a lot of work and passion into their creations, and this collection is no exception. Cover to cover, it’s laid out beautifully, decently edited, and bound in sturdy trade paperback. Worth every cent for the words, of course, but definitely just for the packaging and (insane!) quantity of poems alone, if nothing else convinces you.
Mr. Draime weaves tales of bygone days with the best of ’em, from rock ‘n’ roll jukebox bars to back alleyways to memories of ’Nam, in poems that read almost as prose, short vignettes and stories broken into lines as sporadically as the man appears to be broken himself. He is the master of real, dingy, gory tales of life’s darkness and vivid, harrowing images, from men in factories sliced to death by sheet glass, to hookers and wasted women he simply cannot save from themselves,
[
… ]
Her
5-year-old daughter
came
out from
the
back bedroom
and
stood behind
her
mother
in
the doorway
wide-eyed,
terrified
from all our
yelling
[
… ]
I
[ … ] touched her on the arm,
telling
her
I
wouldn’t leave
till
her mother felt
better
in the morning.
She
just pulled away from me gently, smiling,
and
said it was OK,
that
the other
men
had just left her sleeping on
the
couch, or sometimes the floor.
[
… ] (from “On a Dark Night Across from the Hollywood Cemetery”)
to the horny, lowdown, and downright crass nature of
sex-driven men
[
… ]
it
didn’t
take
long
to
dawn
on
me
that
I’d
stuck
my
dick
in the
wrong
go-go
dancer. (from “How He Met His First Wife”).
Draime doesn’t mince words or cower behind pretty flowers
and puffs of silly steam. This is
not poetry for the faint of heart and not a man you want to give a hug,
although he probably needs one. These are the words of a man who has lived hard and fast, has had
run-ins with cops,
[
… ]
“Well,
kiss my ass,”
I
joked with one of the cops.
“The
last thing I remember,
I
was smoking a joint
at
a friend’s house in Silverlake.”
[
… ]
That’s
when I had to re-learn
that
you don’t joke
with
the cops. [ … ] (from “Routine Stop”)
jail cells, brawling,
[
… ]
I
told him I had just kicked
the
ass of Jerry from over
on
13th Street. He laughed
and
said it was
about
time someone
cleaned
that bastard’s plow.
[
… ] (from “Jerry from 13th Street”)
booze, and drugs of the unfrilly kind. He gives easy and experienced voice to
the wasted and tormented lives of society’s underbelly: the drunks, the dirty
cops, the corrupt politicians, the suicidal, the disillusioned, the dead-eyed,
[
… ]
I
was watching the
dead
eyes of
the
waitress, arguing
with
the dead eyes
of
the cook.
[
… ] (from “The First Hooker (or Dead Eyes in Chicago)”)
the ugly,
[
… ]
He
[ … ] pulled his t-shirt
up
to the back of his neck
revealing
a large, imbedded
nasty
looking gash
in
the middle of his back
clear
down to
the
cheeks of his fat ass.
[
… ] (from “Red’s Tavern”)
and he makes no apologies for knowing their pain well enough
to comment on it. He’s clearly
been there … more than once.
I say with no criticism but with earnest truth that this is
not a lighthearted read, not an enjoyable patio selection with the book
club. Some of the scenes are
downright hard to stomach and will make even the most galvanized of men
grimace. The poems are best served
with a side of rocks and the knowledge that the journey you are about to take
through the pages will not be flowery, but will be lasting and necessary.
I leave you with my selected favorite lines from the book. If they grab you, well … you know what
to do — support the independent press:
[
… ] Memory
replaces
everything lost
in
memory. [ … ] (from “Into the Bleak Abyss of Night”)
[
… ]
sometimes
it burns and burns
the
trees we can’t see the
forest
for. [ … ] (from “Sometimes”)
[
… ] The middle was not
in
the middle, but off
to
the right side, positioned
like
an open grave. [ … ] (from “Trip to Nowhere”)
[
… ] you
called
me a pet name
you
used to use when we
were
pretending a life
together
[ … ]
[
… ] your heart
is
the same old heart
bleeds
like
an ulcer and I
can’t
stop the bleeding
and
I never could (from “Colors and Other Things”)
•This book was sent to me from the publisher because I have corresponded with the author.•
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