Jim Trainer

night Junkie

In Uncategorized on January 6, 2011 at 8:31 pm

I’m a all-set cobra jet creepin‘ through the nighttime.-Open All Night, Bruce Springsteen

See the cops sitting in their car as I pass.  The exhaust from the cruiser like grey ink on the black page of the south Austin night.  See the airport’s lights.  Angel’s lights.  Beacons welcoming them in, beacons watching them go.   She’s gone.  No one but me and the cops and the delivery drivers know:  how beautiful heartbreak can look at 5 in the morning.  Heading home.  A long night.  Earned. 

The days are stupid.  Pale-yellow and happy.  The days are tedious and filled with idiots.  The night is mine.  I turn down Clendenning, she’s there.  I refocus on the road ahead.  I see:  so many roads. 

Minneapolis to Missoula, Abington to Texas 10, and all the way from Austin up to 5 and down, into Mexico, San Diego, L.A., up north past Pawling, NY on the east coast, entering the arctic, Prince Edward, Victoria Island on the west, forgotten roads in Indianapolis or Arkansas, any stinking stretch in the middle and in between, Iowa Falls defying all imagined beauty, so many roads but none home.  So many roads but none home. 

I’m off South 1st and the cops ain’t behind me so I open it up when I hit 71.  Middletown, DE-family, Bastrop, TX-nothing.  I coast through and around the serpentine of 290 and 71.  Let the wind take me.  This is where it all began.  This is where I came into town, GPS crapping out.  Here, with nothing but empty tollbooths and me, maps on the dash blowing in the desert wind.  Two years can be a long time when you’re trying to forget.  A lifetime isn’t much to ask when you’re trying to remember.  I hear that voice again, in my head:  “Everything we’ve done is wrong.”  I hear my own voice, only, out here in the nighttime, immediate, clear:

If everything we’ve done is wrong, what a goddamn miracle we made it this far.

 I’m a leave it to, and lean on, luck.  God only took us so far.  God only took us to the edge.  God wants it to begin and end with his conception.  Survivors remember what they need by leaving it behind.  This is Wisdom.  Nighttime is when all God’s creatures can be:  furtive-fortunate.  We can all lean on luck and get by before sunrise.  Sunrise is the end for bats and night Junkies like me. 

I flip down the visor, and there he is, my old man.  A picture of you falls down from the visor, then you fall down somewhere into the darknesses of my heart.  I’ll keep you there.  The sun will come, into my room, and onto my cold bed where I sleep alone.  Trouble’s been, the Blues will go.  The planes are on the runway, the highways welcoming.  The nighttime is my home.

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