- Paperback: 144 pages
- Publisher: Interior Noise Press (July 29, 2012)
- Language: English
- ISBN-10: 0981660665
- ISBN-13: 978-0981660660
- Product Dimensions: 5.5 x 0.4 x 8.5 inches
- Shipping Weight: 8.6 ounces (View shipping rates and policies)
- Average Customer Review: 2 customer reviews
- Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #5,413,377 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
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More Than The Alley Paperback – July 29, 2012
The Amazon Book Review
Author interviews, book reviews, editors picks, and more. Read it now
About the Author
Doug Draime has been a presence in the underground literary movement since the late 1960’s. He lives in Ashland, Oregon with wife and family.
Top customer reviews
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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 (I've been a small press publisher for twenty years): 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
in the doorway
terrified from all our
[ ... ]
I [ ... ] touched her on the arm,
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
[[ ... ]
d*ck in the
dancer. (From "How He Met His First Wife"; printed version is uncensored).]
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 a**,"
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"; printed version is uncensored)]
jail cells, brawling,
[[ ... ]
I told him I had just kicked
the a** 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"; printed version is uncensored)]
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)")]
[[ ... ]
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 a**.
[ ... ] (From "Red's Tavern," printed version is uncensored)]
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")]