Jim Trainer

“Bodies never lie.”

In Uncategorized on December 5, 2019 at 11:00 am
THIS POST WAS WRITTEN ON NOVEMBER 23, 2019

When Jordan slithers out from under his rock each morning, dons a shirt and tie–sans the jacket, lest he be mistaken for Joe McCarthy–his life’s work is to besmirch everything America stands for in service of Donald Trump.
Good Guy Brent Larkin

At the expense of a massive debt to them of half a million dollars, they really helped us to grow.
-Conrad Keely, …And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead

But today Devo is merely the house band on the Titanic.
Gerald Casale

Sometimes I don’t know where this dirty road is taking me
sometimes I can’t even see the reason why…
-Townes Van Zandt

Hallo.  Trainer here.  I’m attempting something I’ve hardly ever done and that is front load blog posts for when things get crazy.  Not that shit ain’t batshit now but all the more so, in the coming weeks–4 doubles in a row, Christmas party after Christmas party, printing and binding 550 books and flying across the country are all on the dais and it’s a good thing I’m insane otherwise I’d lose my mind.  January will be dead city and though I hope to be working full time by then it’ll be an opportunity to write and cultivate a Yoga practice, maybe.  Otherwise plan the next jaunt–OH, CAN, AMS and GUATE.  It goes on Good Reader until it doesn’t.  I told you I’d publish 10 books in 10 years and that’s only the beginning of everything I’d like to undertake before I hit 50.  If you haven’t figured it out I’m making up for lost time.  Strangely the time seems to burn by, and faster, when I’m this active.  At least it seemed like I had all the time in the world when I was in my 20s and 30s and waitin’ round to die.  Death seemed far off back then or I acted like it was.  My 20s were bourbon and love and my 30s only differed when I began to wonder if running and gunning was all there was and anyway getting fucked up and fucked.  Sex and drugs and rock and roll was always a dumb story and maybe now we see how prescient the end of the 60s really was.  Not only that but that punkrock is maybe a middle class phenomenon and no underground or street politic will change or alter what’s coming now.

It’s unrepentantly sad, alarming and grotesque that it’s sown up and we blew it bad but I’ll still go out tonight and go to work tomorrow.  I touched on this on my last front-loaded blog post.  There’s a heavy why to every endeavor now.  Perhaps all the moreso because there isn’t any answer.  I don’t know why we should go on but I know we will.  Until we can’t and we hit the wall and we’re evicted of her beauty and exiled of God’s bounty forever and gone.  The human experiment fails.  We pass this age and the next one passes us.  We lay long like stone past the stars last bright shimmy.  We’re gone the air, gone the mountain, gone the river and the lake, gone the whatfor and aggrandized, gone the grief, gone the backyard, gone the children, the skinheads at the railroad track in the thick, beat suburban night, gone the Marlboro reds in the Fall, the beer and the wine, gone the wild laughter, meditation, the gesture, animal and song, gone the cup, the ride over and after everything we planned and coveted, all we squirreled or shared, after every dread and small fear, every stroke and fawn, after every triumph, tremor and tumult fade and get rubbed out and peeled off it won’t matter if I’ve published 10 books or none, if I write poetry or personal journalism or Part 21 of The Coarse Grind.  It won’t matter if I loved you or saw you and looked you in the eye but I’ll do it anyway.  A book a year every year for 10 or until I can’t, and arms for you and eyes and ears and lips.  Come close and let’s clutch to each other Good Reader, let’s go down together, with beauty and ire, out from this dream of life onto the fevered wings of death and fire, into this diaphanous unspooling of the myth, let’s get flung and heaved and kiss it all goodbye.

2031, JIM TRAINER’S SIXTH FULL-LENGTH COLLECTION OF POETRY, IS AVAILABLE NOW THROUGH YELLOW LARK PRESS.  NO COMEBACKS BY WILL STENBERG IS AVAILABLE NOW THROUGH YELLOW LARK PRESS.
ORDER YOUR COPIES HERE.
PLEASE JOIN US AT THE RELEASE FOR THESE TITLES, FOR A READING AND SPECIAL NIGHT OF POETRY AND SPOKEN WORD AT BATCH NEXT WEDNESDAY DECEMBER 11
AND AT
SPECK’S RECORDS IN PORTLAND, OR ON WEDNESDAY DECEMBER 18.  

SHARE THE POEM OF THE WEEK ON SOCIAL MEDIA AND I’LL WRITE YOU A POEM!

SEND ME YOUR ADDRESS AND I’LL WRITE YOU A LETTER!

PART 21 OF THE COARSE GRIND, MY MONTHLY COLUMN ON THE CREATIVE LIFE, IS LIVE AT INTO THE VOID.

Stay tuned for news on these releases, readings and broadsides from each collection, designed by Snakes Will Eat You and letter pressed at the Austin Book Arts Center.

2031, JIM TRAINER’S SIXTH FULL-LENGTH COLLECTION OF POETRY, IS AVAILABLE NOW THROUGH YELLOW LARK PRESS.  NO COMEBACKS BY WILL STENBERG IS AVAILABLE NOW THROUGH YELLOW LARK PRESS.
ORDER YOUR COPIES HERE.
PLEASE JOIN US AT THE RELEASE FOR THESE TITLES, FOR A READING AND SPECIAL NIGHT OF POETRY AND SPOKEN WORD AT SPECK’S RECORDS NEXT WEDNESDAY.  

SHARE THE POEM OF THE WEEK ON SOCIAL MEDIA AND I’LL WRITE YOU A POEM!

SEND ME YOUR ADDRESS AND I’LL WRITE YOU A LETTER!

PART 20 OF THE COARSE GRIND, MY MONTHLY COLUMN ON THE CREATIVE LIFE, IS LIVE AT INTO THE VOID.

Stay tuned for news on these releases, readings and broadsides from each collection, designed by Snakes Will Eat You and letter pressed at the Austin Book Arts Center.

Shrieks of Paradise, Correspondence&Rails#44: Dear Jeffrey

In Uncategorized on November 30, 2019 at 10:40 am
The Office of Jim Trainer
War Room
Bat Manor, TX

Jeffrey Privette
Lap of the Empire
Hippie Town, USA

Warmest Greetings from the War Room-

I’m sitting here drinking a pale ale in the AC.  We had some rain this morning and things are looking up.  Anything’s better than the state on fire w/a maggot Governor away on business.  We are born to Trouble, Jefferey, but I can handle mine.  Can you, Brother?
I think it high time to sing w/God and drink from the vine in an Appropriate place where they don’t care about Texas sports teams.  Being a Champion, like we are, is not limited to Victory.  Champions like us don’t cry about broken collarbones or cracked ribs.  We lick our wounds quietly w/our women and plot only the most bitter revenge.  Sometimes living long enough to watch them fly down in ruin&flames is good enough.  Other times, we sideline it w/a slow blues and a smoke over stimulating conversation.
If you’re having a bad day, end it, as my brother Kevin James used to say and still can be heard saying if you ever make it up to his apartment sized bar in West Philly.  We’re doing a couple of shows together on the east coast in a few weeks.  I’ll have to pipe down about how the Philadelphia Eagles are a bunch of fucking Losers while I’m there.  Those people will shoot you for your shoes.
I’ll be back in time for some Happy Haunting on my favorite holiday of Samhain in Hippie Town.  I’m thinking the Ghouls Ball on mushrooms.  Also heading down to Port Aransas for some much needed and Xanax aided r&r.  I don’t like to do drugs in public so I’ll save my little blue zenpaste for the end of our first night on the Gulf.  With any luck, I’ll be awoken to collard-green omelets&miso infused taters cooked by a thick Italian girl who understands me.
My heart is filled w/the Compassion for all things living, all things dying.  Everything else is War.  They will come w/their Resistance but they are paper-thin and We are Champions.  They’ve been squatting on Our meal ticket long enough.  It’s time to scale the wide walls and eat the Rich people.
Here is part two of my adventures in OK.  I do hope you enjoy it.
Please give my best to the Missus and all the Children even if they’re not your favorite.  Beer soon, and Trouble after.  I look forward to our Deep Counsel.

your Brother,
Jim

Shrieks of Paradise, Correspondence&Rails#43: Dear Editor Phil Two

In Uncategorized on November 24, 2019 at 7:34 pm

The Office of Jim Trainer
P.O. Box 49921
Austin TX 78765

Philip Elliott, Editor
Into The Void Magazine
The Great White North
Toronto ON, CDN

1/4/19, 7:42PM

Editor Phil

Happy New Year.  We’ve put another one in the can ain’t we?!  The Year of the Cock began with jaundiced bulging eyes and those first few steps into the barnyard were wobbly and bold.  Who knew the whole thing would be rewarded or undone depending on which career I base my self-esteem on? The first few days of ‘18 were spent standing around a freezing yard in Manor, huddled round with n’er do wells, criminals, dreadlocks and immigrants waiting to go out on a truck.  They were paying $11.75 an hour and I kind of lost my mind thinking I was back in the moving business, after twenty years and 3 cities, bartending jobs making twice that and a deep cast of unbelievably rageful and lust lorn babes and witches, cooing me to sleep in suburban bedrooms or plunging me through the barroom glass.   It was a head trip getting up Phil, putting on the steel-toeds and standing on the hard ground at sunrise in the cold yard–I mean it triggered my fight or flight and I’ve been in FIGHT ever since. My lady did me well on that end this Fall. She soothed me. We laughed and we slept and we read Post Office together.  But now we’re done and it’s Friday night in the city and I’ve got 2 columns in the can and am on point for the relaunch of Letter Day with this half-baked missive to you.  ‘18 was alright. I ended it with a trip below the Tropic of Cancer and sold enough books to get by.  

9:20PM
Good thing we were interrupted, a pause was in order…I said I sold enough books to get by.  That is uproarious mate, fucking unbelievable but it happened. Because of people like you and Heath and my Sister and Aunts and because of a good Brother down near the equator, working in a cobblestone out front a mezcal bar and lit like a cave.  Little Brother came through, Phil. He bought 25 of them thangs and I’m caught between shrugging it off and yelling to the heavens, in tearful thanks–my dreams have come true. Money in poetry is a hard dollar, Brother. Took me maybe 33 years and endless reams of white sheets with dead poems or scrawled lyrics on the other side and nights under a red light reading through a brown prism of mash and ironing out dirty ones and fucking with our clothes on in the ladies’ room.  Poetry is everything, Phil. I know my work teeters like a smoking car and that in my work are streamers, green bottles, back alley toms and vixens as stately as stone, there’s desperation in my work and blood–blood is the hope, there are voices, vices, sages and rue in it and ghosts appear and fade awayPoetry is the row we hoe, it cuts jewels from the dark night and lilts in Chinese whispers.  It’s the way in, out, through and back again. We know this but now it’s taking me places and it’s paying the bills and the luck I feel has put some slack in my bones.  I’m not exploding, though I’m very often on the edge, but letting it resound and burrough deep in me. There comes an ease of confidence when the Universe says yes, Brother—and I believe there is nothing better worth living for.  

I suppose spite will get you through, but me and Lindsey are never going back again.  I feel like I could be a completely different person by this time next year and I want to stay friends and gauge our wrath and triumph through each other.  I’ve heard tell that writing doesn’t come from happiness because if you’re happy then why write? My necessary corollary is if I’ve been able to write through the cutting dark and call all the dogs home then I should be able to crank this out, a note to the Friend, on a Friday night–the worst time to write, a most hollowed out and empty time when traffic streams by and girls laugh loud and high and men dress up and get down to get wasted.  I’m not concerned with them and I mean it this time. It was a weird renunciation drinking in the graveyard at 16 and listening to Black Flag but it only portended of alcoholism and there was nothing dire or righteous about fate in my hometown. We’ve all fought and now the victory becomes pause, repose and otherwise staying straight and getting rattled only at our desks, in front of our machines, the only place we’re ever truly free, and mad.  We’re all mad here.  

Best to you, Brother.  Dare we look into the Year of the Brown Pig and see that it could bring us closer?  That maybe it’s time for me to head up and anyway for us to talk about an anthology and self-publishing, readings and book releases?  Do you happen to know of any bookstores up the Great White North way into supporting independent authors and eager to purchase their work?  Because that’s all it would take, Editor Phil. I’m like the wind and coffee and cheap quarters are what makes the deal to go down.

May Your Crown Be A Halo.

Your Writer,

Jim Trainer
Austin TX

Check out Editor Phil Elliot’s great work and this interview he did about his excellent punk noir epic Nobody Move.