Jim Trainer

Shrieks of Paradise, Correspondence&Rails#32, Dear Thomas Wolfe

In Uncategorized on April 19, 2019 at 9:00 am

March 3, 1971
Woody Creek, CO

Dear Tom…

You worthless scumsucking bastard. I just got your letter of Feb 25 from Le Grande Hotel in Roma, you swine! Here you are running around fucking Italy in that filthy white suit at a thousand bucks a day laying all kinds of stone gibberish & honky bullshit on those poor wops who can’t tell the difference . . . while I’m out here in the middle of these goddamn frozen mountains in a death-battle with the taxman & nursing cheap wine while my dogs go hungry & my cars explode and a legion of nazi layers makes my life a goddamn Wobbly nightmare…

You decadent pig. Where the fuck do you get the nerve to go around telling those wops that I’m crazy? You worthless cocksucker. My Italian tour is already arranged for next spring & I’m going to do the whole goddamn trip wearing a bright red field marshal’s uniform & accompanied by six speed-freak bodyguards bristling with Mace bombs & when I start talking about American writers & the name Tom Wolfe comes up, by god, you’re going to wish you were born a fucking iguana!!

OK for that, you thieving pile of albino warts. You better settle your goddamn affairs because your deal is about to go down. “Unprofessorial,” indeed! You scurvy wop! I’ll have your goddamn femurs ground into bone splinters if you ever mention my name again in connection with that horrible “new journalism” shuck you’re promoting.

Ah, this greed, this malignancy! Where will it end? What filthy weight in your soul has made you sink so low? Doctor Bloor was wright! Hyenas are taking over the world! Oh Jesus!!! What else can I say? Except to warn you, once again, that the hammer of justice looms, and that your filthy white suit will become a flaming shroud!





In Uncategorized on April 18, 2019 at 9:00 am

Buddhism teaches me to stop following every impulse and to learn restraint. Obviously I lost track of what I was taught.
Tiger Woods

At the turn of the century, Philly was vibrating.
Anupa Mistry

Heard the story on the evening news
’bout the Capulets & the Montagues
On a private highway airport bound
the convoy speeds past shanty town
Peter Case

Thirteen years before George W. Bush lied about weapons of mass destruction to justify his invasion and occupation of Iraq, his father made his own set of false claims to justify the aerial bombardment of that same country. The first Gulf War, as an investigation by journalist Joshua Holland concluded, “was sold on a mountain of war propaganda.”
Mehdi Hasan

A big, fat con job.
President Trump

The one thing you did that was great, you didn’t do.
Robert Glasper

for Evan Reibsome

This will be an easy missive.  I’m writing from the hated loveseat.  NPR is blathering about Notre Dame and my coffee’s grown cold.  If I get up to open the door the skies will be grey and full of rain.  The new global climate has made this city tropical.  I should crank off the radio–the French annoy me and Catholics have got a lot of nerve.  I hate NPR but it’s better than any radio anywhere except for maybe KOOP or ‘KDU when the mighty DJ Diane spins.  I’ve very little comfort in these end times.  I can’t shit, I don’t sleep and I wake without a hardon and a headache.  DJ Diane’s voice soothes me, but my comforts are a diminishing return as the global temperature climbs and the world mourns a monument to the biggest pedophile ring in modern history.  Now they’re throwing it down in Britain and I’m glad about it.  I’ll stay tuned, make more coffee, rage and write on.

I lectured at LSUS last Friday and the diversification of my resume is concurrent with my desire to get off the temp circuit and step out from behind the bar.  I think I can do it, Good Reader, and the good news is my Art’s got legs, Hot Damn, and I won’t need the dread of my life being forfeit that’s choked every event and endeavor since I quit working for a quadriplegic millionaire in the Fall of ’17. Little Brother’s moved to town and I’ll be goddamned I might even start playing music full time.  He’s looking for a band and I ain’t saying ‘No’.  I’m happy to be on the road for anything except a 13-hour wedding in the sticks.  Catering off-site has lost it’s charm, if it ever had any.  I’m working for an alright company in town, making almost as much money as I did when I started in the biz 16 years ago, which is gross and bizarre and I’ll take it.  This time last year I was hauling copper for less, and yelling at my friends on the phone, and running out and leaving my typewriter behind when I found out my roommate was into me for almost two grand.  That’s life ain’t it though–reluctantly grinding from catastrophe to stasis and all the while one hospital visit away from total destitution.  Just ask Jussie.
A washed up celeb who lied to cops.
-Kim Fox
I can’t complain.  I live in a country where the internet isn’t controlled by the government and I’ve no felony charges to face.  Besides, I’m always happy to write.  My workshop at LSUS was about the practice.  What I do here is self-publishing and compartmentalization and living room bullfighting.  My biggest problem is running out of coffee and I’ve written myself into the arena ain’t it though you bet motherfucker.  I’m less than thrilled with this life but I can’t go back.  I’m looking forward, truth be told, and whatever slog and grind awaits–bartending the Blanton this weekend or running corporate lunch today, I know there’ll always come a day when I can put my feet up and crank out these words, paint a picture with the oils of rage and somehow come through, diaphanously with love.  600 words is all it takes to rouse the muse and have her sit here with me, on the hated loveseat, and patiently wait to fuck me senseless as soon’s I wrap this missive on the end days of the Final Century for you, Good Reader.

You’re welcome motherfucker.

Ab irato,
Austin TX

Shrieks of Paradise, Correspondence&Rails#31, Dear Bukowski

In Uncategorized on April 12, 2019 at 9:00 am