Sometimes

Poem by Doug Draime


Sometimes it points to the sky
of blue, pointing like a bird
dog. sometimes it buries itself
deep in the nothingness
of political thinking. sometimes
it screams through the black,
black lies once told by you
and me. sometimes it just sits
there like J. Edgar Hoover
with a cheap tape recorder,
plotting your death. sometimes
it spends years adding up numbers
in an attempt to round off
infinity. sometimes it hides
in the couch with change
from hundreds of pockets.
sometimes it burns and burns
the trees we can’t see the
forest for. sometimes
it runs like an out-of-control
driverless locomotive down a
steep mountain pass.
sometimes it stands trendy poets
up against the wall of
timeless literature and shoots them.
sometimes it lances boils on the
butts of opossums. sometimes it checks
into motels under the names of
Curly, Moe, and Larry. sometimes it
loves beauty for the right reasons.
sometimes it can name every
painting in the Art Institute of Chicago
blindfolded. sometimes it is impossible
to decode with extra-sensory perception
or any other kind of perception.
sometimes it breaks your heart. sometimes
it plans wars on planets in
distant galaxies. sometimes it
whittles exquisite little angels
out of cherry wood. sometimes it stands on
its head and imitates Erica Jong.
sometimes it captures butterflies,
then sets them free in the Pope’s
bedroom. sometimes it goes into
tirades over the absurdity of
collective consciousness. sometimes it
teaches law students at Harvard how to make
tiny gas chambers. sometimes it stumbles around
in Dante’s Inferno, selling copies of
Milton’s Paradise Lost. sometimes it poses
as P. T. Barnum standing behind
a billboard, trying to explain the difference
between propaganda and advertising.
sometimes it wishes on a star. sometimes
it pretends to be a tugboat on the
Mississippi in 1859. sometimes it’s
a relief. sometimes it surfaces
in London, claiming it never knew
the gun was loaded. sometimes it
whirls like a ballet
dancer in the middle of
a completely empty Times
Square. sometimes it simply
is not there, regardless of what
blind faith may say. sometimes
it counts all the hairs on your
head, then splits them. sometimes
it can be caught adjusting the
color control on the telescope at
the Griffith Observatory.
sometimes it peters out before you do.
sometimes it gets solar activity
to disrupt TV transmissions. sometimes
it resembles a dove flying above.
sometimes it shoots out streetlights.
sometimes it never, never stands
in a certain place overlooking
the Hudson River. sometimes it
has no remorse. sometimes it shines!
sometimes it rolls around in history.
sometimes it’s as lonely as a
grave. sometimes it skydives in
the Grand Canyon. sometimes it
can be heard giving a testimony on true
love at the Taj Mahal. sometimes it takes
pictures of fat men eating. sometimes
it fastens itself on the
back of poor judgment. sometimes it holds to
truths that are self-evident. sometimes it wanders
around in the wilderness for 40 years, missing
the way out repeatedly. sometimes it’s out of
focus. sometimes it has no reason
for being. sometimes it foams at the
mouth, then spits up into oblivion. sometimes
it hammers invisible nails into
smog. sometimes it simply is! sometimes it
sets a course for Easter Island. sometimes
it walks the floors at Graceland. sometimes
it has a way of fooling the wisest of men.
sometimes it leaks information to
expired newspapers. sometimes it
has no way of coping. sometimes it
circles the covered wagons. sometimes it knows no
limits. sometimes it climbs mountains
dressed in a tuxedo. sometimes it
is released from bondage. sometimes it is
functional for a few minutes.
sometimes it divides nations.
sometimes it
shimmers on the moonlit water. sometimes it runs a
race with stolen shoes. sometimes it pauses
for applause. sometimes it deals cards
from the bottom of the deck. sometimes it alters
events for diabolical purposes. sometimes it is
your friend. sometimes it jumps like a
jackrabbit into the red moon. sometimes it moves
around the bases like a 90-year-old Babe Ruth.

DOUG DRAIME passed away on February 17, 2015. He was a poet, short-story writer, and playwright in Los Angeles beginning in the 1960s and was the author of More Than the Alley, Los Angeles Terminal: Poems 1971–1980, Rock ’n’ Roll Jizz, and Speed of Light. This piece was a finalist in the 2013 Luminaire Award for Best Poetry.

The Coil

Literature to change your lightbulb.

Alternating Current Press

Written by

Indie press dedicated to lit that challenges readers & has a sense of self, timelessness, & atmosphere. Publisher of @CoilMag #CoilMag (http://thecoilmag.com)

The Coil

The Coil

Literature to change your lightbulb.

Alternating Current Press

Written by

Indie press dedicated to lit that challenges readers & has a sense of self, timelessness, & atmosphere. Publisher of @CoilMag #CoilMag (http://thecoilmag.com)

The Coil

The Coil

Literature to change your lightbulb.

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