Jim Trainer


In Uncategorized on July 14, 2012 at 2:12 pm

Me&the boy hugging Route 66 through Oklahoma.  We’re burning through the towns.  Seiling, OK and its gone.  We’re passing over the brown wines of creeks.  We’re rising up and coming back down on all that beautiful land.  There are smokes out there on the horizon and fire on the plains.  His mother is back home with the pill bottle rolling out onto the carpet.  The t.v. is on but she is not watching.  The boy will be ok.  He plays drums on his lap.  We listen to:  Dylan, the Boss, the Strokes, Belinda Carlile, Beck.  He’s a Pisces, born the same day as me.  He was conceived during a mad June back in ’04 when I was in love with her and wrote poetry on an old typewriter in an abandoned warehouse.  He was conceived in love.  Now she degenerates in her room and sinks into that town.  She tries to fill his head with madness but the boy will be ok. He is awake.  Awake is a painful way to exist.  The best&worst will have to pass through us.  But he is awake and so am I.  We’re burning through Oklahoma, July 14.  There is a subtle knowledge that passes between us.  Flowing through our deep connection and his old wisdom.  He doesn’t know that the world is a better place and that we have to keep fighting to make it so.  All he sees is a beautiful world.  He doesn’t know that many great men will pass through this world and some of them will be left standing out on a hot&dusty road.  He sees me at the wheel, big Papa, singing like a lunatic, smoking and playing the harp.  My love will not protect him but he will not need protection.  I am his father and he is awake.
The hungry land is starving.  We must feed it with our sweat&tears and toil.  We’re at the crossroads of 51&44, listening to them Outlaw Blues.  Up on a pole at the corner the flag is ripped&burning.  The sun beats down on the old concrete like judgement on the Righteous in the hungry land.  All he sees is a beautiful world.

Rain quit and the wind got high,
and the black ol’ dust storm filled the sky.
And I swapped my farm for a Ford machine,
and I poured it full of this gas-i-line.
Woodrow Wilson Guthrie
July 14, 1912 – October 3, 1967

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