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Doug Draime |
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The Last She Said Poem She said all my writing was full of rage, and morose, and that I just used being a writer, as an excuse for being a drunk and an asshole. I was blind drunk again and she was driving. We were headed down Fountain Avenue in Hollywood, in her mini- Volvo station wagon. I attempted, unsuccessfully, to push her from the car. Last I heard she moved back to New York City, and was working for a lesbian stage actress, who paid her in sex and cocaine. I'm still an asshole but I stopped drinking. Miles Leading me through 1963 in Chicago, you and your Sketches of Spain; always playing in my top floor apartment on State street north. There is no doubt Rodrigo's heart sang and sang, when he heard your version. I was just a snot-nosed kid, drunk on Black Label beer and Benzedrine inhalers, cruising the Puerto Rican bars on north Clark looking for 16 year old girls, with stunning eyes like coal. Beautiful, red haired Patricia, she tried to straighten me out, attempted to adjust my tormented sights. But I had to live, or die in the bohemian life The old hi-fi I brought up from Indiana rumbled and flashed the melancholy joy of you, ` and my tears would flow as I listened to your horn create spheres and dimensions I never knew human beings were allowed to touch; colors so bright and whirling, how could the whole earth not be as amazed as I? [Index] |
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Thunder Sandwich #26 - Summer/Fall 2005 |
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