September 23-29, 2002: Amy Templeton Buckley and Doug Draime

week of September 23-29, 2002

Amy Templeton Buckley and Doug Draime

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Amy Templeton Buckley

Bio (auto)

Inspired by her Kentucky childhood and lineage dating back to Bourbon County in 1785, Amy Templeton Buckley’s poetry ( is inspired by her Bluegrass heritage
Journal credits include The Absinthe Review, Adirondack Review, The Desert Post Weekly, Free Verse Poetry Journal, Poetic License News, Poetic Voices and Steel Point Quarterly. 

In addition to her poetry, Amy is also a professional artist (California, Florida, Kentucky and New York private collections) and successful businesswoman/entrepreneur In 1999, at the age of 25, Amy Templeton Buckley became the Executive Vice-President of the Castello Cities Internet Network ( which includes among its 92 city sites most successful Internet city guide in the world
In 2002, Amy co-founded Driven Consultants (, a personal and professional coaching and consulting firm targeting young women
Amy Templeton Buckley currently resides in Palm Springs and Laguna Beach, California with her Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, Mac.

The following work is Copyright © 2002, and owned by Amy Templeton Buckley and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Paint by Numbers

He brings his own peanut butter
(for the bagels)
and a bottle of apple juice
(he doesn’t believe in coffee);
a zipped-up Bible and a
rainbow of colored highlighters The world is his office
and his desk is beside mine Green is for envy, gray for sloth,
lavender for lust and red for blood His brow furrows in studied concentration
as he drains his bottle
and colors in the spaces
The only thing he will drink is apple juice,
but only from a glass bottle – single serving
(you can’t be too careful these days) His head is bowed over his craft,
bobbing up every other verse
to spread more peanut butter on his onion bagel
(poppy seed being discarded as too licentious,
with Oriental overtones). 

He dated an Oriental once,
before he swore them off,
along with all: women, coffee, alcohol and tobacco (One substance short of a government agency,
but even Jesus used a gun-I mean,
you can’t throw the moneychangers
out of the temple
without a firearm or two ) 

The Oriental (her name was Chin)
was a painter
and wore her hair in a long black braid
which hung down her back
and just brushed
the tops of her buttocks
when she walked She ate caviar and toast and very little else
She had a song for everything:
for painting,
cooking, walks in the park,
and for when
(every other Tuesday),
she was allowed to fuck him. 

He found it oddly arousing,
this vocal habit of hers,
and called it yellow – the color of longing and regret
(and wholly incompatible with his color scheme)
So he broke up with her one evening
(a Tuesday:
after caviar, peanut butter and sex) And her song ended
and he bought three new colors,
a case of apple juice (single serving),
and took up residence at the coffee shop on the corner,
at the table beside mine.

Cooking with Curses

The way her mother screams her name,
it is a curse. 
Her mouth, heavy with lacquer,
Laced with lines,
scatters oaths with
scarlet exclamation points
and quotation marks
as spiky as a witches’ broomstick. 

Which is fitting as most of the time
her daughter
thinks her a witch:
brooding and dark
with time for nobody
and nothing
but her boiling pots and pans
Which doesn’t do anybody any good,
despite all the attention to her brews,
her food tastes like shit
even on the good days:
her bread is dry,
her vegetables overcooked,
watery and pale And, worst of all,
she never makes dessert.

Time on the Line

I remember when I discovered
that the phone would work
for me
and not just
for grown-ups,
like my mother calling my father
to see when he’d be home from work,
so she’d know when to start dinner
and please pick up some rolls
on your way home

I cradled its smooth cylinder
and felt magic
run though my core:
promise, possibilities
and all the answers in the world
The phone book
was my good book
and I was amazed it knew so much:
my dentist, my grandmother, my teacher
(that I hate to this day because
she was nice to the boys
and mean to the girls,
especially the pretty ones
and I even had braces then). 

There was even a number for Time Weather too,
but I didn’t find that remarkable
as the morning paper
laid that out
for days on end. 

But to know Time:
every minute,
at any time-in increments like seconds –
(which always seemed to me like
small, abandoned spiders)
well, that was something! 
I called every day for a week
until I realized one day that
the voice never changed. 

And it made me sad,
that time has no moods.  
I wanted it to weep at 2 a.m and shout at 5:15.   

I wanted to know that I wasn’t alone.

Doug Draime

Bio (auto)

Writing since age of 15 Started to publish in magazines and “underground” newspapers in 1969 Also write short stories and plays Recent chapbook: “Slaves of the Harvest” (Indian Heritage Publishing) Latest magazine publications; Lummox Journal, American Dissident, Poesy, Pitchfork, Struggle, ZZZ Zyne, Red Lamp, Space and Time, etc Awarded PEN grants in ’87 and ’92 Member of The Academy of American Poets Born in Vincennes, Indiana, raised between there and Pittsburgh, Pa Has lived in Chicago, Germany, and Los Angeles Worked at so many things to keep body and soul together, it would boggle an orderly mind Moved from L.A to Oregon in 1981 Married, 2 ex-wife’s, 2 children, 2 step-children, 3 step-grandchildren, 3 ass kicking cats, and one Dalmatian puppy

The following work is Copyright © 2002, and owned by Doug Draime and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

To The Good People At
The Good Samaritan Hospital

They tell me I barely made it into
the world Three months premature,
almost dying; but a wild being,
flailing my arms insanely
out of my mother’s womb There was a blizzard on that night,
and my uncle was
in a car accident, where two people
riding in the other car were killed,
on his way to the hospital to see me Well, they actually died after being
brought to the hospital,
before my uncle got there, a little shaken,
but without a scratch Or, so I was told, by my drunk and crying cousins They said at the same moment, across town,
my grandfather’s roof caved in
from the immense weight of snow And all over Southern Indiana
there was a power outage and they
had to hook up a generator
to my incubator,
to keep me alive I just wanted to say, that my descendants
and I deeply thank you And, oh yeah,
real sorry about the accident.

Coltrane Mowing The Grass

Working up to the edge of my backyard,
southeast corner facing California The mower spurting down the slope,
weeping for oil, I catch
sight of the
chocolate brown short haired
cat from down
the street
dancing along
the fence Coltrane is
playing on the disc player
from my open kitchen window And I turn off the mower and
sit down to watch the cat intently,
my body full
of its supple moving, and the rest of my senses
consumed by that
other cat, that dead cat, Coltrane My wife is yelling something at me from the porch
and our dog is barking at
the cat, but the cat dances
on, and that genius cat, John Coltrane,
wails and wails on and on I go up on my porch to take
a break, my wife hands me an ice cold beer, and I
seriously consider hiring the kid next door
to finish mowing the grass, as I sit down, turn the music up,
close my eyes, and throw the world
the finger.

On The Freeway From Ashland To Portland

Rice Hill passes on N Umpqua river as
Janis Joplin
screams and cries
the blues on
the CD over
the NIssan’s stereo The rain is as thick as
and is steady
and ceaseless And I am humming
along My wife
says I have prospects
as a business-
man She mentions an
ice cream truck, a hot dog cart, some sort
of small franchise She worries about money,
because, currently, she’s making at least 3 times
what I am able to pull in Relax, I tell her, if things
work out and I can
get a rest stop, and something
cold to drink,
when we make it to
Portland I can sell this poem
for a one nighter at a porno motel and
2 shrimp dinners She turns off the stereo, and
doesn’t laugh Which leads me to
think maybe poetry really is serious business.

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