Jim Trainer


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

  1. […] live at the Middle East Corner in Boston on April 26, 2017.  The Reverend Kevin P. O’Brien, The Droimlins, Duncan Wilder Johnson and Jim Healey also on the bill. […]

  2. […] The worst trouble is no trouble at all.  The only lasting and final danger is this contentment.  I fought long and hard to be in the mess I’m in.  It’s quiet here.  For once the twat next door isn’t banging club hits through the paper walls to the rhythm of the ignorance of her own death.  The world has a full faith in it’s beauty but I wait the decay of time to see what new petals will spill their joy from the cut earth.  It’ll be gasoline and harvesting the bones of dead things that made this Rome the last.  Though I don’t know why I will get after this and spool out my every overwrought thought, do divining with hot tea and a word count.  Asking why I write is pissing in the wind.  But if I try and get to the bottom of why I do anything it rattles my skull and sullies the gut.  The day in and the day out have got me, the irons of Babylon and a healthy reptile fear of being outdoors and never getting back in.  I ain’t much for this though I might have been but it’s taking so long to cut out in the get lost.  The Big Night.  Drinking the milky way, tumbling with black carbon and getting blown out in streams of white phosphorus and sulfite.  I’m waiting for my love, when her evening class gets out we’ll go night swimming and dip into the fissile forever and stars the color of salt and semen.  Things I remember coming at me as we spiral, mirrors cut to scimitars, pieces of me cutting me to pieces.  Things I forget are forgotten, maybe stuck and caught in Gitane smoke and shook with throaty laughter rumbling out the ardors of every strife.  I think we will be free but we’ll need to get free to be there.  Use our finger bones like literal skeleton keys to get to where the endless bottles of booze are in the next room.   […]

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