Jim Trainer

JESUSFUCKINGCHRIST

In Uncategorized on September 12, 2021 at 6:06 am

OHIO AND BUST: Small Trouble For A Small Town…TOUR TIL DEATH: Standup Tragedian Jim Trainer Recoups Credit Card Debt On The Road…GIRL TROUBLE: Is There Any Other Kind?…GETTING BY IN THE END OF TIMES, Kind Of Digging This Global Warming Thing…4 PLANES AND EIGHT AND A HALF TRILLION DOLLARS LATER: Jim Trainer Memorializes 911 By Throwing Radio Into The Court…INTRODUCING OATMILK&COLD INSTANT: Trainer Debuts New Column Aplomb With Destittuion&Romance…LOVE&HATE, WHAT ELSE: The End Is The Beginning of the Work Week for Personal Journalist Jim Trainer

“What do I know? I’m an aging punkrocker with an anger solution, and I go down before the sun most days. Days ‘off’ I come down with imminent adrenal-failure after fighting for a living in Trump’s America. Bosses and girlfriends and X-bosses and wannabe girlfriends. Dudes, I gotta say it, are just dudes—easy to spot and avoidable, if you’re quick, like a bunny. I was born in the Year of the Rabbit and those born under this most auspicious sign are wont to flee and built for it. Don’t too wise though, as those same pistons propelling the woodcat forward will knock your dick in the dirt should you get ‘im on his back.”
Follow Jim Trainer on Patreon for personal journalism, poetry and music.

Well, the night does funny things inside a man
these old tomcat feelings you don’t understand…

—Tom Waits

4:44A.M.
Good morning. There isn’t a better way to address you in these wee, wee hours and anyway you probably don’t want to be addressed at all. It’s early. I’m up before the sun most days, sometimes just after midnight. The mind flares and the body tends to the flame. The anxieties of the Anthropocene, coupled with heartbreak, dealing with the rich and fending off fruity groupies has exhausted me to the point of depletion. I’ll come around but last week was a bust and found me at the bottom of an adrenaline dump, and dysfunctioned, from keeping my cool under uncanny duress. It’s work staying at peace and it’s work being at war. Choose wisely. The righteous and the wicked have been marked down but I’m up early, smoking and drinking cold instant and going over the list. Figured I’d post you, let you know I’m alright, that I’m getting by in the end of times and even feeling frisky on this dark morning of 6,928 of sustainable living we have left. I’m wont to drop this wisdom here what else like a tomcat dropping a rabbit at your feet. Which, if not the leit motif then certainly the reason for writing Part 1 of Oatmilk&Cold Instant last week. I wanted to pay homage to tomcats and Papa and because writing is the next best way to spend my time. The first is of course being wrapped up in you, but, you’re hesitant, and that’s fine.

Part 1 of my new weekly is for Cholo Proud Boy Siamese and all those street-fighting Bodhisattvas out there and all around us. They’re always there and they need us to pray for them. Not just cats but the living and the dead. We pray for those who’ve gone before. We pray for those now here and we pray for those who are yet to come. When they pray we’ll hear them from our great beyond, and though my boons are great and worries many, I’ve a full faith in all that is to come. We’ll see the enemy driven before us, mad with illusion and drunk on violence. I am not afraid. When you’ve lived month to month for over 30 years, death is almost welcome and accepted at least to get on with your morning and crank it out. Get the words down and drink cold water. Hit the streets stoned—bound to love and ready to fight. It’s the body politic summer and I want to see you on the streets motherfucker. If you’re in the rust belt or on the east coast chances are you can see me. I’ll be out there, telling it and playing guitar some. I do it because I love it and because I’ve no recourse for my blues except to transmute and make use of them or die. Pain doesn’t matter. Neither their lies. We’ll take all kinds and comers into our robotically-farmed eco village at world’s end. Except for the deniers, who we both know are dead already. I’ll have to come around on praying for them.

Nam Myo Ho Renge Kyo! See you on the road motherfucker.

TRAINER
AUSTIN TX

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THE COARSE GRIND IS DEAD

SHAKIN’ IT, BOSS

In Uncategorized on August 27, 2021 at 7:10 am

YOU’RE LIVING ALL OVER ME, SHAKEY BUTTS & BODY NAZIS AND THE LIFESTYLE WAR OF THE NOVEAU RICHE…SEX IN THE AFTERNOON—WHAT ELSE?…ALL MY HEROES DON’T KILL PEOPLE, SAINT MIKE RIDES AGAIN…”Kids don’t vote,” FAILING SOCIETY AND SECURING A VOTING BLOCK IN THE SHARPS-BIN OF AMERICA…HOW MUCH FOR THAT BABY PENIS IN THE WINDOW?….PUNK’S NOT DEAD IT JUST SUCKS NOW, ANTI-VAXXERS & THE RED BANNER OF NEW YORK HARDCORE

“20oz. of pink, sugar-flavored water ain’t the best but neither were gummed Xanies and white-label rye after blowing it out on South Philly mornings in the Year of the Cock.”
SHAKIN’ IT, BOSS

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DEATH WISDOM OF THE AGES

In Uncategorized on August 20, 2021 at 11:02 am

COMING AT JESUS, BUMMING SMOKES IN PARADISE…BLACK HELICOPTERS&THRIFT STORE BETTIES AT DAWN…HOLY WAR IN THE LAND OF FIRE, IT’S THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT AND I DON’T FEEL FINE…THE MAGGOT TURNS, GOVERNOR GREG ABBOTT IMMUNO-COMPROMISED & SPIRITUALLY CRIPPLED…FOREVER OR 8.5 TRILLION…THE PIGGY IS NOT FORGIVEN, SAINT MIKE NAILS KARL ROVE TO THE CROSS

“Social media is a contradiction in terms,” she said, blowing my mind with her cool blue tone.
“You’re interesting,” I tell her and cough. The afternoon sun was on me, I had 2 in the can and 1 up on Patreon.  I had time.  She didn’t but she humors me and I like to make her laugh.
“Is it so hard to imagine that creatives could make it on Patreon in the Final Century?” 
“Nope,” she quipped.  “And it suits your sensitivities.” 
A way with words, this one.  And everything else.
“True enough, peach.  I just feel connected there, like a DJ, like A COLUMNIST.” 
Yelling blew me out, I hacked in short sharp rasps.  I told her to come over and hung up the phone.  She didn’t so I got up. Closed the glass doors. Drank my water.  Took my pills and headed down Castle Hill for a dark.


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THE COARSE GRIND IS DEAD