Jim Trainer

White is the New Black

In Uncategorized on March 6, 2014 at 2:29 pm

80 miles per hour in a car2go can feel like you’re fucking flying. I had an hour left on my break and needed to get to Duncan Munoz Office Machines and back to the mansion by 3:45pm. I passed the Missouri Pacific as I got onto the onramp for North Loop 1 and said hello to the train. My lovely friend. A Lincoln town car started crawling up my ass. I looked at her in the rearview. She was mean&miserable and trying to hitch a ride to my comet. Too fucking bad. Sorry sister ’cause I fucking smoked her. I passed Steck, Research Boulevard, Braker Lane-boom.

“How ya doin eh?” I grabbed Steve’s hand and shook it proudly. “Here she is.”
“Well.” I sat down. First and foremost I was impressed with just the size of her. And the way her keys sat snuggly in all that armor. She was like a white tank and I when I fired her up she hummed warmly in the dull white sunshine of the shop.
$222 later, and Steve sagely offering I “carry her like a book eh.” I was in the car and she was beside me. I thought about putting her on the floor of the car but changed my mind at the intersection. She’d ride upfront with me.
I cranked it down Braker and tore down to MoPac under that brave Texas sun.

I’m 39 today. And I have all the presents&gifts I could ever want or need. These years at the end of the road here are a boon. Gravy, as ol Raymond Carver would say. And I couldn’t be happier or want more. That is, I could not want so much impossibly more-from myself.

There’s a 1br house in Point Reyes with its doors swinging wide. And she’s on the porch swing smoking a triple 5, watching the tides roll in and the tides roll out. She was my mystery. She was my Lotus. She was my sexual communion and my release from the brutal streets of Philly. But now she is alone. Swinging in the salty air with a wry look of displeasure on her beautiful dark Asian face; but coy in the corners of her smile because she knows she’s not alone.

Indeed. We still walk together, you&I. You thought it was just that afternoon, around 2pm, as the waves rolled in and we talked. We really talked. The truth is that we are still having that conversation. And we’re still walking down the beach, at 2pm again, and that you are in my heart. And that we have truly lived, you&I, if we have been etched upon each other’s hearts, and if we have really experienced each other in this version of death we call life.
Aho and so I find forgiveness here, on my 39th Birthday and in the middle of Piscean torpor days. And the key is as simple as your smile. The sun. A fine compact car blazing like a rocket down the high avenues of Paradise. 5 minutes left on break. Parking. Getting out. Climbing the stairs. Carrying you “like a book eh.” And putting you DOWN. Finally.

Whew. What a relief, eh? No more tinkering twinkling songs of rue on a manual President XII Tower. No more shanty-night poetry, bent over the barrel and coughing it up on a black&tan Meteor Adler. Woody’s machine killed facists.

This machine remembers you.

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And openly I pledged my heart to the grave and suffering land, and often in the consecrated night, I promised to love her faithfully until death, unafraid, with her heavy burden of fatality, and never to despise a single one of her enigmas. Thus did I join myself to her with a mortal cord.
-Holderlin, The Death of Empedocles

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