Jim Trainer

Archive for April, 2014|Monthly archive page

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In Kevin P.O'Brien, Poetry on April 30, 2014 at 3:34 pm

Long eyelashes fall out of my skull. Sometimes they make sounds like branches or arms falling from a tree. I am King of Wishes. A pile in reserve. An arsenal for a really bad day. A wonder of mammoth proportions. Sometimes they get stuck in my eye. They scrape at the glass like hungry children. A mother’s burning finger pulls and one is torn free, placed on the altar, wished upon, and sent sailing into the oblivious wind. My wishes are scattered in parking lots, train stations, bars, sunny beaches, on board ships, on bathroom tiles, in ashtrays, and on women’s skin.

by Kevin P.O’Brien
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Confession

In Bevan McShea, National Poetry Month, Poetry on April 29, 2014 at 8:34 pm

Swim
In The Guidance
Of My Beloved
I built a pillar for all the Stars
To Sea
I sang a song to make
Jesus Smile
And then I died
That my Child may be made
Alive

I forged the sword
That could divide the armor
Of any man that it slams
(Swift the mind
Split the planet)
And I threw it into the vast expanse
Of the span of the Atlantic
And it will bloom a tree of coral
In a thousand and twenty years

(Athens, Greece)

by Bevan McShea

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In Jim Trainer, National Poetry Month on April 28, 2014 at 12:02 am

all the vengeance in the world is just a drop in the cup
when you thirst for your own life to be through

humidity swelling the brain tonight
too many beers and on the walk home
had to plow through so much dumb meat
with no sparks on the street,
in fact the streets curled up and bit
at your feet, so I made fast and
got up here to do this
custodian of the lonely
curator of the dead room
there was a time as a young man
when that climb was like
my burning rungs into the sky
was a young Nietzsche smoking out
the empty bottom of the paladin’s hat
but the victories hang heavy
now
a skank heart and a shanked reprieve
still on shift, still parsing out
the long slow stab, growing fat
around the wound like flaccid
labia

my loves I gave the red road
and beauty an infinite jewel
I wouldn’t take it back
if I could

but I should’ve gone dark
a long time ago.

HOW TO KEEP A LETTER FROM FLUSHING

In Charlie O'Hay, National Poetry Month on April 25, 2014 at 2:26 pm

As a kid
whenever I got a letter
from Flushing
I knew it was from
my grandfather.

He’d been there for years
with his shack job
Bonnie
drinking themselves
toothless.

My grandmother said
he’d been a handsome man
once
long ago
and showed me a picture.

A letter from Flushing meant
a five dollar bill
still smelling of a taproom
and a card
written by a shaky hand.

Somewhere in a box
on the top shelf of my closet
I still have one
just one:
my inheritance.

by Charlie O’Hay

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Not But For a Night

In Uncategorized on April 23, 2014 at 8:58 pm

A repost from Josh Britton, for National Poetry Month last year.

Going for the Throat

I’m as guilty as you are. My hands are shaking,
there’s a new curl in my lip. All night we stitch
our eyes through the air; I can hear what you’re saying,
but only the curse words, and I’m simply miming “Kill me”
at the bar. And the heat is on, so we’re forced to raise
a forearm to our brows, and you mock fainting; I pretend
to choke. People are noticing. You’re as guilty as I am.

by Josh Britton


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Booted&Forested

In Lamont B. Steptoe, National Poetry Month on April 22, 2014 at 5:08 pm

Giant’s Prayer

In Jim Trainer, National Poetry Month on April 20, 2014 at 9:54 pm

so you saw a mile
and caught an inch
but you don’t feel proud
leaning
down the corridor
of your own history
you can’t hear
the high laughter of youth
or be content
remembering it
the truth isn’t ever
heavy
enough
to keep your feet
flat
you’re nervous
and you don’t worry about your brother

you called it
too many times
your constant shrugging’s
put a hard crease into your soft heart
you sleep a bad sleep
not dreaming but remembering
dreams
curled up
and laying there in the milkfat
a thick narcotic blanket,
the shadow of a Giant’s
Prayer.

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Hack journalist, antiquated troubadour and dying poet Jim Trainer is the author of Farewell to Armor, a collection of poetry, out now through WragsInk Press. His work has appeared in Divergent Magazine, Verbicide Magazine, Anthology Philly, Poetry Ink and Philadelphia Stories. Trainer is the founder of Yellow Lark Press. He currently lives in Austin, Texas where he serves as contributor, curator and editor of Going For The Throat, a semi-daily publication of cynicism, outrage, correspondence and romance.

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In Amelia Raun, National Poetry Month, Poetry on April 17, 2014 at 1:39 pm

Lover, I take me back.
There are no pieces that you may have.
All of me belongs to me.
I warned you of my selfish nature.
Don’t try to hold a gypsy.
We run.
Disappear.
We pack everything and move.
I have nothing to send you, I need this to survive.

One day we should celebrate.
You will forgive me in the future.
When you find the golden light of your own that I left with you.
I told you, I don’t lie, I am not a thief.
Your treasure.
Look for it.
You’re so close.
Put down your anger, drop all the weight.

Oil, amber, earth.
Energy, music, dreams.
I told you I wanted more.
From childhood I have been a seeker.
We chase.
Pursue.
We run to the edge of reason and jump off.
You knew when you met me, my dirty feet gave me away.

Search for your Divinity.
Saturate yourself in bliss.
Babe, you are wonderful.

by Amelia Raun

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Tsunami Dreams

In National Poetry Month, Salvatore Cerceo on April 16, 2014 at 1:46 pm

Their undying support
Funnel winds rip through
And we keep watch
With words so kind I can’t
Find any connection in my
Action

Tornado watch is high
Terror alerts are at red
And I watched them run
From my arms as usual
On every other Sunday
Afternoon

Over the radio today they
Told us to put a heavy plastic
With duct tape over our windows
It’s true I don’t like him and in turn
He absolutely doesn’t like me

There’s a gun I’ve hidden in the
Floorboards just in case and I’ve
Hidden the bullets separately and I
Ask them to come back and say
Goodbye to me

Crossing the border in some far off
Place the CIA is going to instigate some
Tragedy that we will read about tomorrow
What I said to her today may have confused
Her but I don’t see how just because you date
A woman with kids that makes you a father

Roves of huts burned to make way for oil fields
And cattle farms to feed and support world
Interest and the dollar is at an all time low I
Think the 9 months leading up may have
Something to do with becoming a father

The world has its problems and I have mine
And everyday the two meet either in my heart
Or on the front page and I’m just waiting for
A wave to come and wipe this place out.

by Salvatore Cerceo
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Rocking Horse Stables

In Jason Woolery, National Poetry Month, Poetry on April 15, 2014 at 4:17 pm

Sitting in the room
where her grandmother died
She said to me
“Gramma must have been ready.
I can’t feel her presence here
at all.
The house seems so…
Empty.”
Nodding, I thought to myself—
Might have even said—
When a giant dies
The cave always feels empty.
Doesn’t matter how big it was
When they lived in it.
Or how small.
She looked up
at the framed photo on the wall,
Color faded
by years
of sunlight
Beaming full upon it
through the window
across the room.
“That’s my great-grandma”
She said to me.
“I know that smug smile”
I told her.
She laughed out loud
and burst into tears
Simultaneously.
My seeing her sob
gave her grief life.
Her loss grew fingers—
Bruise-purple as death,
Liquid-warm as blood,
Going for the throat.
I swallowed hard,
Cried tears of my own,
Held her hand
as we gazed
on the face of a woman
Whose life is long over
Whose smile yet lives
On the lips of the girl
Sitting beside me
Suffering in salty silence.

She told me about
her grandpa’s workshop,
How it always smelled
of hot metal
and fresh sawdust.
We talked about
Rocking Horse Stables,
Manes made of off-white yarn
and custom hand-tooled leather saddles.

Later—
After the funeral was over
and the tears were all dried—
I fell asleep and dreamed
that everyone I had ever loved
And lost
Had gathered in a stable
filled with wooden rocking horses.
Each picked their own horse,
Sat on saddles custom-made
and one-of-a-kind,
placed ghost feet on wooden runners,
wrapped arms around wooden necks,
braided fingers delicately
among the strands of mane,
held on tightly to off-white yarn.
And when all were mounted
Safe and secure
They were ready.
The gate of the rocking horse stable
Opened
And my loves flew away
In rainbows like parakeet feathers
Into the blurred watercolor lines
Of their last sunset,
Each one riding his chosen horse—
Pegasus with wooden rockers for wings—
Away
And gone from me
Forever
Leaving behind
Fading hints of memory
That smell of hot metal
And fresh sawdust.

04-02-2014

by Jason Woolery

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