Jim Trainer

Archive for July, 2014|Monthly archive page

Waiting for the Lightning

In Austin, Music, music performance, Performance, Philadelphia, singer-songwriter on July 29, 2014 at 9:41 am

Jim Trainer — Waiting for the Lightning from Michael Batchelor on Vimeo.

I was so young and wet
love hadn’t left me yet
Stood out in the dark fields of the republic
waiting for the lightning

Her black hair would turn blonde in the spring
we climbed the hill and I gave her my ring
High on atop the town and everything
we waited for the lightning

dark clouds they gather deep
rain pocks the dusty ground
but no flash, no spark, no heat
just thunder through the old house
in a low, rumbling sound

What will be will be
what will haunt will haunt
Heron hang their heads in the pond
they know better than to wait for the lightning

When the sun hung high and white up there
was not rain streaking in her hair
There was no rain no lightning there
beneath the willow

just thunder through the old house
in a low, rumbling sound

Lifetimes and miles away
came the news one day
From the storm she and our daughter stowed away
as lightning cracked the willow

(c) 2010 Jim Trainer

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east side

In Jim Trainer, Poetry, Spoken Word, Writing on July 22, 2014 at 9:16 am

now this reminds me of
drinking corn with Red
that summer with her
at 47th&Hazel
waiting for the pain to pass,
she showed mercy on me
even though the pain wouldn’t
pass
for another 10
years.
it’s the way the sun don’t care out here
it curls up lazy from the asphalt
and
splinters through
sleeping families waiting for the bus
&Cowboy Eddie
directing traffic,
all those lives
in beat up used cars
going nowhere
out beyond the wide wrecked fields of the republic.

I stop here
pull up on another decade
&park
I
dip into the fold
and disappear.

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Waiting for the Lightning

In Music, music performance, singer-songwriter, song on July 20, 2014 at 9:25 am

I was so young and wet
love hadn’t left me yet
Stood out in the dark fields of the republic
waiting for the lightning

Her black hair would turn blonde in the spring
we climbed the hill and I gave her my ring
High on atop the town and everything
we waited for the lightning

dark clouds they gather deep
rain pocks the dusty ground
but no flash, no spark, no heat
just thunder through the old house
in a low, rumbling sound

What will be will be
what will haunt will haunt
Heron hang their heads in the pond
they know better than to wait for the lightning

When the sun hung high and white up there
was not rain streaking in her hair
There was no rain no lightning there
beneath the willow

just thunder through the old house
in a low, rumbling sound

Lifetimes and miles away
came the news one day
From the storm she and our daughter stowed away
as lightning cracked the willow

(c) 2010 Jim Trainer

To download this song and view Jim Trainer’s On The Hill session, click here.

Boxter Blues

In Uncategorized on July 18, 2014 at 7:37 pm

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Sittin’ On Top Of The World

In Being A Writer, blogging, Writing, WRITING PROCESS on July 17, 2014 at 5:34 pm

up on the rooftop
they won’t know if you jumped
or you fell off

-9353

Brother Mark out there in the July heat. And me up here-same. July leaves so much to be desired in Texas, but I still got my imagination and a kinghell supply of the goodstuff… Maybe someday this’ll all make sense to you.
Maybe there is no Heaven.
Maybe it never will but I’m back out on the roof again. It’s been high time for awhile now and even longer that I should be far from here. Maybe some gulf town, our bodies bronzed and lazy, cruising with the top down listening to the Ramones and stoned out of our fucking gourds. Take it ease. Mobile down the alleyway and roll along in the ocean breeze at 20, head back to the hote and fuck like bunnies. Up with the sun and Yoga. Then coffee and sex and breakfast and a nap before she goes out shopping and I can get down to it-the fast 800 or the mean 12, but-what the fuck am I talking about? There’s no rest for the wicked so I’m back out on the roof again.

singin for my supper down at 12 street and vine

What happened to that old dream anyway? The one where I’m a lover, a true romantic? The one where my one aim and sole motivation is only to please her and her sexual exhaustion is the only way I can truly get some work done on good conscience, my Queen?
Welp. I don’t know. But I’m out here on the roof, drinkin beer in the hot sun and waiting for the miracle to come. Until it does it’ll have to be a fast 800 or a mean 12, neat&fine.
What else?
Amanda wants a ranch. Trainer wants a War Room. Aho my point is that we all have dreams. Some vision, some far away idyll, some panacea or beach front where we can finally UNWWIND. Put it all down and in the words of Belle Leaver, finally take out our toys and play!
But the sun is setting on the Empire. And there are people who need our help.
there’s people getting angry in theses darkest hours, there’s blood on the streets, the streets are ours
-Blitz
So,
I’m out here on the roof again. The bomb hasn’t dropped. But it hangs there-waiting. And that suit of armor’s still out there in the garden-rusting. All our aims to dismantle our defenses, strip our armor and truly covet and hold the world, never despising a single one of her enigmas? All for naught. You can’t get in from the outside anyway. It’s an inside job. Ian MacKaye was right. Function is the key.  What else, Brother? The Bard of Bettie Naylor’s out here again. In a court of blackbird, grackle and thrush, redbird, bluebird and, what was once mistaken for a lark-the white-eyed Vireo. Shit. The White-Eyed Vireo’s come out of the darkness, friends. Whereas the Yellow Lark sung of liberation from our suffering, the White-Eyed Vireo is out there on the shoulder of this savage road. He is there, Brothers&Sisters. He’s seen the sunrise, Children-and there ain’t any use in talking a bird out of its will to live. It’s futile. Like all such foolish dreams. Romance is dead. Paradise is far off. I’m on the roof typing again-in the heat and sway, with the chiggers and construction crews and milf Judges and… I feel wonky. I was up writing the screenplay with Amanda til 4. The Boss is taking it easy on me today but either way it’s good to be working. If I didn’t have a dayjob I might not write at all. And the rooftop ain’t bad. In fact there’s no place that I’d rather be.

Maybe there is no Heaven. Or maybe this is all pure gibberish—a product of the demented imagination of a lazy drunken hillbilly with a heart full of hate who has found a way to live out where the real winds blow—to sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whisky, and drive fast on empty streets with nothing in mind except falling in love and not getting arrested . . . Res ipsa loquitur. Let the good times roll.
-HST

Shrieks of Paradise, Correspondence&Rails#15: Submission Blues

In Being A Writer, Submitting, Writing on July 12, 2014 at 10:57 am

Dear Jim,

Thank you for submitting your poetry to Up the Staircase Quarterly.

I thought that your poem “the bane of it, still” was quite good and it
came close to acceptance, but unfortunately, it isn’t the right fit for
the next issue and I have to pass on it. I am confident you will find a
good home for that one and the others soon.

Sincerely,

Up the Staircase Quarterly

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