Walking On Water
- a poem by Doug Draime

Walking On Water

I walked into the Wabash river
fully clothed
up to my waist,
drunk out of my mind at 16. I thought
for a moment there
that I could really
walk on water.
My friends on the bank
of the sand bar, screaming
at me to
get my ass out,
that someone
had called the cops.
But 12 bottles
of Miller High Life
and a half pint
of Jim Beam
had set me on a mission,
sent me over the wobbling edge
into some kind of insane spiritual probing
of elated intoxication and power, and
uncontrollable fits of laughter. Kenny threw
a rock that hit the water
just to the left of me. Then Vic
threw an empty beer bottle,
that I had to duck
to avoid from smashing into my head.
And I just laughed and
laughed and laughed. I have yet to see
the moon and stars
quite as beautiful and mind blowing
as they were
on that night. And I looked up
and laughed hysterically at them too,
just before the cops got there,
when I made them walk into the river to get me.
I laughed and prophesied their doom
all the way to the county lockup.
But the view of the night sky from the
barred jail cell window wasn’t
quite the same.

Doug Draime (1943-2015) emerged as a presence in the 'underground' literary movement in the late1960's in Los Angeles, California. A Senior Literary Editor for The Commonline Journal, Draime's books include: Knox County (Kendra Steiner Editions) and Los Angeles Terminal (Covert Press), Boulevards Of Oblivion (Tainted Coffee Press), Farrago Soup (Coatlism Press), and More Than The Alley (Interior Noise Press). Draime was awarded PEN grants in 1987 and 1992. Born in Vincennes, Indiana, Draime lived in the foothills of Oregon since the early 1980's until his death in 2015.