Jim Trainer

No Trouble With Jimbo

In Jim Trainer, Poetry on May 4, 2014 at 9:41 am

I don’t believe in God. Don’t believe in faith. I have no use for heaven but it’s nice to get a taste. Not only is hell real, but hell is a place! I’ve known the despairs of isolation, utter loneliness eating glass. I’m careful to say that I’ve been in Hell-considering what happens to the rest of the world every day. But I have been locked inside myself and on the outside of the roiling crowd for decades. Intimacy was the key. As King of Hearts. But now that the kingdom’s ruined and the prize has become sour&sullen, bourbon. Bourbon on a Sunday morning’s like chocolate cake on your deathbed. Like liquid wisdom of trees. Charcoal, like time, like darkness.

I never knew a greater love than the love I’ve had for the sun. Except for bourbon. Bourbon. Sex. New Orleans. Cormac McCarthy. The only thing American that I believe in. The blues. Robert Johnson. Son House. Cory Branan. Trouble eraser. Destroyer of pain. I don’t trust white-liquor drinkers. They’re crazy or bourgeoise. Or trying to be bourgeoise. Bourbon’s what you drink when you’re cleaning your guns. Bourbon’s what I’d be drinking with my Father but he’s a long time gone. Old Crow if you must?-but I’d rather drink beer. Bourbon sweet rust bangin ginst your liver, warming your whole body like Halloween. Bourbon doesn’t care if you’re a writer or a dayworker like your dad. Bourbon will help you be mean to her.

Bourbon is pomade and rock&roll. Bourbon steals your innocence. And you love it. Not the high flat trumpet of beer. Not the soaking malaise of red wine. Not the socialite light Sunday party full of gabbing, cloying Bettys. Bourbon’s what the men drink, far from the kitchen, far from the demands of mother. A brown flaming jewel. A good reason to be human if only to forget your humanity. You flee the circus lights. The town shrinks to flea size but you got the world in a pea shooter. And a tumbler glass.

Heaven is a place where I drink bourbon in the morning. And the birds don’t care, not that they ever do, and the construction crews-conscripted by law-are quiet now, and the whore of this city-New Austin-shuts the fuck up for a while and a brother like me gets a taste. Yeah. A brother like me gets a taste.

In vino veritas? Ha fucking ha. Bourbon’s why I can look at you. And lie to you like you want me to.

20140504-100350.jpg

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: