Doug Draime

Hundreds of Nowheres



They would come
down the road under the railroad bridge
this side of nowhere off
the midnight B&O train line:
speeding box cars full
of grain, cattle, farm tools,
and, the weary ragged strangers
from Virginia, Canada, New Jersey,
knocking at the back
door the next morning asking
for a meal. I’d give them a plate of cold
fried chicken or a ham sandwich,
coffee or milk, some cookies. I was a wise ass
teenager, and just wanted to get away to the Big City
and I’d tell
them that this place was nowhere.
To my recollection none of them
ever responded to that, probably because
my nowhere was just one of
hundreds of nowheres to them.
 




On Hearing A Preacher Say From The Pulpit
That God Only Answers The Prayers Of “Christians”


Give me more than
smoke and mirrors.
Give me more than
a song and dance.
Give me more than
your stinking lies of
fear from the pulpit.
If the Son of Man
walked in here,
He’d ask
Peter for
the
cat-of-nine-tails
and start
kicking ass.
But no, on
second thought that’s
what I would do.
The Lord would forgive your
stupid
ass,
but not before He laughed
so hard,
He’d fall of the cross,
that your collective ignorance
keeps Him
nailed
to
 
 
 

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