Jim Trainer

Archive for 2019|Yearly archive page


In Uncategorized on December 26, 2019 at 10:41 am

for Rob Kaniuk

today when I prayed
I blessed no one
it was hard getting down
hard getting back up
from my knees
I been working since 12 that’s
32 years every day a fight
some gigs were easy but they took your mind
others took your body and your mind
I took salt baths and wrote and
didn’t write or bathe at all and I drank
that perfect, crippling foil–alcohol
and swirled in the hopelessness and the
myriad of trial and damage that comes with that life
I washed dishes, mowed lawns, painted houses
it was insisted
I was lucky to do so
my father was an oil man and they
moved him from city to city
because of his attitude
my attitude is my father’s and I don’t feel lucky
or beaten though almost
on some days, weeks, months and seasons
on off days I turn off the phone
type these words for us:
me and my father and every man and woman
who’s survival is weaponized against him
whose health and wellbeing has to be negotiated
though honestly most days I don’t type at all
but lie there not sleeping
letting the bad humors of battle wash over me
get up when it’s time
to go back to work and I pray
though today when I prayed
I blessed no one.

2031 thumbnail


Shrieks of Paradise, Correspondence&Rails#47: tl;dr

In Uncategorized on December 23, 2019 at 8:55 am

The Honorable Nancy Pelosi
Speaker of the House of Representatives
Washington, D.C. 20515

Dear Madam Speaker:

I write to express my strongest and most powerful protest against the partisan impeachment crusade being pursued by the Democrats in the House of Representatives.  This impeachment represents an unprecedented and unconstitutional abuse of power by Democrat Lawmakers, unequaled in nearly two and a half centuries of American legislative history.

The Articles of Impeachment introduced by the House Judiciary Committee are not recognizable under any standard of Constitutional theory, interpretation, or jurisprudence.  They include no crimes, no misdemeanors, and no offenses whatsoever.  You have cheapened the importance of the very ugly word, impeachment!

By proceeding with your invalid impeachment, you are violating your oaths of office, you are breaking your allegiance to the Constitution, and you are declaring open war on American Democracy.  You dare to invoke the Founding Fathers in pursuit of this election-nullification scheme—yet your spiteful actions display unfettered contempt for America’s founding and your egregious conduct threatens to destroy that which our Founders pledged their very lives to build.  Even worse than offending the Founding Fathers, you are offending Americans of faith by continually saying “I pray for the President,” when you know this statement is not true, unless it is meant in a negative sense.  It is a terrible thing you are doing, but you will have to live with it, not I!

Your first claim, “Abuse of Power,” is a completely disingenuous, meritless, and baseless invention of your imagination.  You know that I had a totally innocent conversation with the President of Ukraine.  I then had a second conversation that has been misquoted, mischaracterized, and fraudulently misrepresented.  Fortunately, there was a transcript of the conversation taken, and you know from the transcript (which was immediately made available) that the paragraph in question was perfect.  I said to President Zelensky:  “I would like you to do us a favor, though, because our country has been through a lot and Ukraine knows a lot about it.”  I said do usa favor, not me, and our country, not a campaign.  I then mentioned the Attorney General of the United States.  Every time I talk with a foreign leader, I put America’s interests first, just as I did with President Zelensky.

You are turning a policy disagreement between two branches of government into an impeachable offense—it is no more legitimate than the Executive Branch charging members of Congress with crimes for the lawful exercise of legislative power.

You know full well that Vice President Biden used his office and $1 billion dollars of U.S. aid money to coerce Ukraine into firing the prosecutor who was digging into the company paying his son millions of dollars.  You know this because Biden bragged about it on video.  Biden openly stated:  “I said, ‘I’m telling you, you’re not getting the billion dollars’…I looked at them and said: ‘I’m leaving in six hours.  If the prosecutor is not fired, you’re not getting the money.’  Well, son of a bitch.  He got fired.”  Even Joe Biden admitted just days ago in an interview with NPR that it “looked bad.”  Now you are trying to impeach me by falsely accusing me of doing what Joe Biden has admitted he actually did.

President Zelensky has repeatedly declared that I did nothing wrong, and that there was No Pressure.  He further emphasized that it was a “good phone call,” that “I don’t feel pressure,” and explicitly stressed that “nobody pushed me.”  The Ukrainian Foreign Minister stated very clearly:  “I have never seen a direct link between investigations and security assistance.”  He also said there was “No Pressure.”   Senator Ron Johnson of Wisconsin, a supporter of Ukraine who met privately with President Zelensky, has said: “At no time during this meeting…was there any mention by Zelensky or any Ukrainian that they were feeling pressure to do anything in return for the military aid.”  Many meetings have been held between representatives of Ukraine and our country.  Never once did Ukraine complain about pressure being applied—not once!  Ambassador Sondland testified that I told him: “No quid pro quo.  I want nothing.  I want nothing.  I want President Zelensky to do the right thing, do what he ran on.”

The second claim, so-called “Obstruction of Congress,” is preposterous and dangerous.  House Democrats are trying to impeach the duly elected President of the United States for asserting Constitutionally based privileges that have been asserted on a bipartisan basis by administrations of both political parties throughout our Nation’s history.  Under that standard, every American president would have been impeached many times over.  As liberal law professor Jonathan Turley warned when addressing Congressional Democrats: “I can’t emphasize this enough…if you impeach a president, if you make a high crime and misdemeanor out of going to the courts, it is an abuse of power.  It’s your abuse of power.  You’re doing precisely what you’re criticizing the President for doing.”

Everyone, you included, knows what is really happening.  Your chosen candidate lost the election in 2016, in an Electoral College landslide (306-227), and you and your party have never recovered from this defeat.  You have developed a full-fledged case of what many in the media call Trump Derangement Syndrome and sadly, you will never get over it!  You are unwilling and unable to accept the verdict issued at the ballot box during the great Election of 2016.  So you have spent three straight years attempting to overturn the will of the American people and nullify their votes.  You view democracy as your enemy!

Speaker Pelosi, you admitted just last week at a public forum that your party’s impeachment effort has been going on for “two and a half years,” long before you ever heard about a phone call with Ukraine.  Nineteen minutes after I took the oath of office, the Washington Post published a story headlined, “The Campaign to Impeach President Trump Has Begun.”  Less than three months after my inauguration, Representative Maxine Waters stated, “I’m going to fight every day until he’s impeached.”  House Democrats introduced the first impeachment resolution against me within months of my inauguration, for what will be regarded as one of our country’s best decisions, the firing of James Comey (see Inspector General Reports)—who the world now knows is one of the dirtiest cops our Nation has ever seen.  A ranting and raving Congresswoman, Rashida Tlaib, declared just hours after she was sworn into office, “We’re gonna go in there and we’re gonna impeach the motherf****r.”  Representative Al Green said in May, “I’m concerned that if we don’t impeach this president, he will get re-elected.”  Again, you and your allies said, and did, all of these things long before you ever heard of President Zelensky or anything related to Ukraine.  As you know very well, this impeachment drive has nothing to do with Ukraine, or the totally appropriate conversation I had with its new president.  It only has to do with your attempt to undo the election of 2016 and steal the election of 2020!

Congressman Adam Schiff cheated and lied all the way up to the present day, even going so far as to fraudulently make up, out of thin air, my conversation with President Zelensky of Ukraine and read this fantasy language to Congress as though it were said by me.  His shameless lies and deceptions, dating all the way back to the Russia Hoax, is one of the main reasons we are here today.

You and your party are desperate to distract from America’s extraordinary economy, incredible jobs boom, record stock market, soaring confidence, and flourishing citizens.  Your party simply cannot compete with our record: 7 million new jobs; the lowest-ever unemployment for African Americans, Hispanic Americans, and Asian Americans; a rebuilt military; a completely reformed VA with Choice and Accountability for our great veterans; more than 170 new federal judges and two Supreme Court Justices; historic tax and regulation cuts; the elimination of the individual mandate; the first decline in prescription drug prices in half a century; the first new branch of the United States Military since 1947, the Space Force; strong protection of the Second Amendment; criminal justice reform; a defeated ISIS caliphate and the killing of the world’s number one terrorist leader, al-Baghdadi; the replacement of the disastrous NAFTA trade deal with the wonderful USMCA (Mexico and Canada); a breakthrough Phase One trade deal with China; massive new trade deals with Japan and South Korea; withdrawal from the terrible Iran Nuclear Deal; cancellation of the unfair and costly Paris Climate Accord; becoming the world’s top energy producer; recognition of Israel’s capital, opening the American Embassy in Jerusalem, and recognizing Israeli sovereignty over the Golan Heights; a colossal reduction in illegal border crossings, the ending of Catch-and-Release, and the building of the Southern Border Wall—and that is just the beginning, there is so much more.  You cannot defend your extreme policies—open borders, mass migration, high crime, crippling taxes, socialized healthcare, destruction of American energy, late-term taxpayer-funded abortion, elimination of the Second Amendment, radical far-left theories of law and justice, and constant partisan obstruction of both common sense and common good.

There is nothing I would rather do than stop referring to your party as the Do-Nothing Democrats.  Unfortunately, I don’t know that you will ever give me a chance to do so.

After three years of unfair and unwarranted investigations, 45 million dollars spent, 18 angry Democrat prosecutors, the entire force of the FBI, headed by leadership now proven to be totally incompetent and corrupt, you have found NOTHING!  Few people in high position could have endured or passed this test.  You do not know, nor do you care, the great damage and hurt you have inflicted upon wonderful and loving members of my family.  You conducted a fake investigation upon the democratically elected President of the United States, and you are doing it yet again.

There are not many people who could have taken the punishment inflicted during this period of time, and yet done so much for the success of America and its citizens.  But instead of putting our country first, you have decided to disgrace our country still further.  You completely failed with the Mueller report because there was nothing to find, so you decided to take the next hoax that came along, the phone call with Ukraine—even though it was a perfect call.  And by the way, when I speak to foreign countries, there are many people, with permission, listening to the call on both sides of the conversation.

You are the ones interfering in America’s elections.  You are the ones subverting America’s Democracy.  You are the ones Obstructing Justice.  You are the ones bringing pain and suffering to our Republic for your own selfish personal, political, and partisan gain.

Before the Impeachment Hoax, it was the Russian Witch Hunt.  Against all evidence, and regardless of the truth, you and your deputies claimed that my campaign colluded with the Russians—a grave, malicious, and slanderous lie, a falsehood like no other.  You forced our Nation through turmoil and torment over a wholly fabricated story, illegally purchased from a foreign spy by Hillary Clinton and the DNC in order to assault our democracy.  Yet, when the monstrous lie was debunked and this Democrat conspiracy dissolved into dust, you did not apologize.  You did not recant.  You did not ask to be forgiven.  You showed no remorse, no capacity for self-reflection.  Instead, you pursued your next libelous and vicious crusade—you engineered an attempt to frame and defame an innocent person.  All of this was motivated by personal political calculation.  Your Speakership and your party are held hostage by your most deranged and radical representatives of the far left.  Each one of your members lives in fear of a socialist primary challenger—this is what is driving impeachment.  Look at Congressman Nadler’s challenger.  Look at yourself and others.  Do not take our country down with your party.

If you truly cared about freedom and liberty for our Nation, then you would be devoting your vast investigative resources to exposing the full truth concerning the FBI’s horrifying abuses of power before, during, and after the 2016 election—including the use of spies against my campaign, the submission of false evidence to a FISA court, and the concealment of exculpatory evidence in order to frame the innocent.  The FBI has great and honorable people, but the leadership was inept and corrupt.  I would think that you would personally be appalled by these revelations, because in your press conference the day you announced impeachment, you tied the impeachment effort directly to the completely discredited Russia Hoax, declaring twice that “all roads lead to Putin,” when you know that is an abject lie.  I have been far tougher on Russia than President Obama ever even thought to be.

Any member of Congress who votes in support of impeachment—against every shred of truth, fact, evidence, and legal principle—is showing how deeply they revile the voters and how truly they detest America’s Constitutional order.  Our Founders feared the tribalization of partisan politics, and you are bringing their worst fears to life.

Worse still, I have been deprived of basic Constitutional Due Process from the beginning of this impeachment scam right up until the present.  I have been denied the most fundamental rights afforded by the Constitution, including the right to present evidence, to have my own counsel present, to confront accusers, and to call and cross-examine witnesses, like the so-called whistleblower who started this entire hoax with a false report of the phone call that bears no relationship to the actual phone call that was made.  Once I presented the transcribed call, which surprised and shocked the fraudsters (they never thought that such evidence would be presented), the so-called whistleblower, and the second whistleblower, disappeared because they got caught, their report was a fraud, and they were no longer going to be made available to us.  In other words, once the phone call was made public, your whole plot blew up, but that didn’t stop you from continuing.

More due process was afforded to those accused in the Salem Witch Trials.

You and others on your committees have long said impeachment must be bipartisan—it is not.  You said it was very divisive—it certainly is, even far more than you ever thought possible—and it will only get worse!

This is nothing more than an illegal, partisan attempted coup that will, based on recent sentiment, badly fail at the voting booth.  You are not just after me, as President, you are after the entire Republican Party.  But because of this colossal injustice, our party is more united than it has ever been before.  History will judge you harshly as you proceed with this impeachment charade.  Your legacy will be that of turning the House of Representatives from a revered legislative body into a Star Chamber of partisan persecution.

Perhaps most insulting of all is your false display of solemnity.  You apparently have so little respect for the American People that you expect them to believe that you are approaching this impeachment somberly, reservedly, and reluctantly.  No intelligent person believes what you are saying.  Since the moment I won the election, the Democrat Party has been possessed by Impeachment Fever.  There is no reticence.  This is not a somber affair.  You are making a mockery of impeachment and you are scarcely concealing your hatred of me, of the Republican Party, and tens of millions of patriotic Americans.  The voters are wise, and they are seeing straight through this empty, hollow, and dangerous game you are playing.

I have no doubt the American people will hold you and the Democrats fully responsible in the upcoming 2020 election.  They will not soon forgive your perversion of justice and abuse of power.

There is far too much that needs to be done to improve the lives of our citizens.  It is time for you and the highly partisan Democrats in Congress to immediately cease this impeachment fantasy and get back to work for the American People.  While I have no expectation that you will do so, I write this letter to you for the purpose of history and to put my thoughts on a permanent and indelible record.

One hundred years from now, when people look back at this affair, I want them to understand it, and learn from it, so that it can never happen to another President again.

Sincerely yours,

President of the United States of America


In Uncategorized on December 19, 2019 at 11:00 am

I suggested that, if they still insist on building a stupa, they have the plaque say, ‘I am not in here.’ But in case people don’t get it, they could add a second plaque, ‘I am not out there either.’  If people still don’t understand, then you can write on the third and last plaque, ‘I may be found in your way of breathing and walking.’
-Thich Nhat Hanh

Peet’s Coffee

I never liked Christmas.  You got to understand, the Jim Trainer we all know and love  (or don’t love) only exists after a certain age.  Too much bad dysfunction and trauma to go back or try and reclaim any joyous or carefree timbre of my character.  Ask any of my hardcore punk friends from High School.  It’s like I was born an old man and anyway, being jaded has afforded me some protection over the years and the truth has keep me lean if not aware.  I could probably thank my Black Irish Father for all these fine qualities, and some really shit ones too but I could never get on the same page as my cheerfully deluded mother who, for all we know, loves Christmas.  She certainly loves the Jesus and seems to be good with America and in the strangest turn has come out for Trump.  That’s a head scratcher best left in the realm of stones better left unturned.  Let’s just lump the old gal in with my youth and innocence—kiss ‘em all goodbye and never speak on it again.  I don’t like the holiday sure but I love this time of year.  Everywhere’s a ghost town and it’s usually pretty ok when they’re not around unless you’re roaming the corporate wasteland like I am in December, and find yourself alone in a coffee shop suffering bluegrass renditions of songs you could never hear again and it would be too soon.  I was homeless one Christmas and xeroxing chapbooks in New Orleans on another.  Last year I lay in a hot bath overlooking the Austin skyline with a fine woman.  Year before that I played the Driskill Hotel Bar for 3 nights in a row.  Nothing’s ever the same anymore but even when it was it was weird.  Christmas at the end of the world doesn’t feel any more or less hollow than the holiday always has for me but this year I’m on the West Coast and charmed by the high, green air out here, even as Ray Charles hits it till the fiddles come in and my cup is empty and the FedEx guy stands by on Broadway with his load in the cold dusk.

I wish you the best Good Reader and I don’t need a time of year to do it either.  I’m writing in an empty Peet’s Coffee in NW Portland because this is exactly where I want to be and what I want to be doing.  I just spent almost 3 hours at the post office addressing and taping orders of No Comebacks on no breakfast and a flagon of instant coffee with honey.  I think I overdid it.  Where I started overdoing it is up for debate but it’s certainly before this morning, probably when I started these projects and maybe even as far back as July.  I captained a party for 100 Thursday night, worked 7AM-12 at the shelter next day and captained a party Saturday night, binded 100 copies of No Comebacks Sunday morning and bartended a party for 60 that night.  I did 7-10AM Monday morning at the ARCH and then flew to the post office to mail some and then home to pack.  Little Brother dropped Spencer and I off at the ‘port at 1 and we flew all day, touching down in the PDX just before 8PM last night.  It’s been days and days of this Good Reader.  But I don’t have to tell you because you’ve been with me the whole way and isn’t that nice?  

All I want is to work in peace.  It’s a life I’ve waited and fought for and sometimes fought by waiting for—a peaceful afternoon at a screen, late or early, bright or grey mornings at a machine.  I never wanted anything to do with their world and traded in currencies of the inner life.  I’m the best there and even at my worst there but at least I can put it in a frame.  As I told Jenny at the 2031 release last Wednesday, a column of words is all that stands between me and the enemy in me.  Writing’s a stanchion between me and the void, a refuge and a weapon.  I’ve called out into the hungry land like radio and you heard and even put me on.  I’ve got 225 copies full of over 40 poems—moments documented, festooned, fetishized and otherwise championed, bits and parts of life that only seem to make sense as a whole, in retrospect and on the page.  

In this work we’re rageful, iconoclastic, turbulent and even while swirling in the maelstrom of all these, at ease.  I’m at ease writing and I’ve a reason for being anywhere as a writer—here at Peet’s with you and the loathsome muzak through the house speakers slowly getting washed out by the traffic outside.  Wet pavements and neon.  Night is falling in the Emerald City and I miss you though I ain’t lonely.  The only thing better than this solitude would be a solitude with you so, be a dear, indulge me—turn down the room and take off your clothes but leave the heels on.  Let’s fuck until it ain’t Christmas baby.  I’m horny and I hate the world.   I’m a romantic after all but for all the things they’ve no use for.  I’ve been thrown away, put down and turned out.  Now I’ve nothing and I’m free.  Fuck the holiday.  It’s cold out there.  Press your body against mine.  Mark Kozelek is singing Christmas carols and I’ve never been happier about the end of the world.

Greetings from Krampus motherfucker.

This is the same America—the America of the raised nightstick, the shuddering convention hall, the booming bike engine, the canceled credit card, and the impossible dream.
James Parker

2031 thumbnail

Shrieks of Paradise, Correspondence&Rails#46, Dear Tau

In Uncategorized on December 17, 2019 at 5:57 pm

The Office of Jim Trainer
709 Rio Grande St
Bro Country, TX

Nick Fruean
Hostile City, USA
9/1/17, 6:21PM

Greetings from the Pearl of the South-

That’s what Billy Milano calls it.  He’s the doorman at my corner bar. Up the street from this mansion and loony bin I’m flying from in a couple weeks.  Billy’s second band, S.O.D., recorded the theme for Headbanger’s Ball.  His bandmates went on to play as Anthrax and Billy formed M.O.D.  He’s a good guy, a Trump supporter but the only bit of east coast I can rely on down here in the Velvet Rut.  As much as Philly’s got attitude these people are bitchy and noncommittal, which is infuriating because, as you know, if you are consistently noncommittal then you are actually quite committal, if only to your flip-flop wearing jerkoff self. I’ve just downed a fucking flagon of strawberry lemonade water ice, from Jim-Jim’s.  It’s late and I stink. I need to shower and head out to the Vortex Theatre. Ebony Stewart is putting on another one woman show and she’s not to be missed.

I must admit, being 42 and after the same dream is not really so strange.  I mean, it feels like I’ve been asleep for the last 5 years, shows and books notwithstanding.  To be after the same dream makes the most sense, if in a seemingly immature and slipshod way. Point is if I were after a 9 to 5 now, after all these years, that would be the strangest thing, and sad.  But if I can get up there, under the hot lights, at least 15 times a month then I will survive and best be biding my time behind a desk before showtime, grinding it out on an iPad or punching the keys of a fire engine red IBM Selectric II.  Our work will save us. Maybe it wasn’t meant to, but you either hang yourself or you hang it on the wall. Friday is Letter Day. I write 2 letters every Friday and it should keep me from playing with myself on my designer couch in the high rooms, or listening to the Broad Street Breakdown on YouTube until dark.  My depression probably still rules this roost and I’d do wise to keep on top of my bad blues.  It’s an exaggeration to say that no one checks on me, but I can go days and will do so gladly, in sloth and solitude.  I have friends. Good ones. But hardly any homeboys and romance is a joke. You learn about yourself. Ideally you master yourself and you cross the seas of loneliness.  What would be the point of ever going back? High and heady, I know. Nietzsche faire. I’m sure I’m due. I could love someone and maybe even start a band, but–not here.  I’ve got some things to attend to and they say the 3rd year of sobriety is a real doozy—if not fireworks then a white knuckled look at all the fucked up reasons you drank to begin with.  Like swimming in a can of worms ain’t it though. Shit.

The sun is setting in Austin.  It’s really quite beautiful I guess.  I’m after the same things I’ve always been after and afraid to ask why.  I’m hoping that won’t matter much in these paling years and the spell I cast during the Eclipse will come home to roost—I’ll be on the road or getting there, putting the hours in and getting it down.  Like Richard Hell. The work becomes the road and the inner life rolls out. We clip our own wings but can always find a high place to fall from. That’s what Art is, speaking of Papa Friedrich, Bound heart, free soul.  That man knew some things.  He watched Rome fall in his mind and the Third Reich rise in his town.  If that doesn’t make you a poet then you deserve whatever you get.

We will live to see stranger things than our own mortality.  Be well. Don’t forget the struggle, don’t forget the streets…and always create.

Yr Brother,



In Uncategorized on December 12, 2019 at 11:00 am

I was always willing to be reasonable until I had to be unreasonable.
-Marvin John Heemeyer

Some now postulate that a new geological epoch has begun, with the most abrupt and widespread extinction of species since the Cretaceous–Paleogene extinction event 66 million years ago.

The leap to radical resistance or radical disengagement is too great for most of us to make.
Roy Scranton

I discovered a first principle of art: a weary mind in a weary body. So I did my own work first – my writing – which meant rising two hours before leaving the house.
James Kelman

All quagmires seem to require a similar culture of bureaucratized dishonesty, a similar mask of optimism with the death’s head underneath.
Ross Douthat


I wrapped a 72-hour week working for the man yesterday.  As you can imagine, I got little to no writing done.  I’m living down a choice I made many years ago.  I’ve no healthcare, I don’t pay taxes and I inherited enough money for a Japanese car with under a hundred thousand miles.  I work doubles and triples and as many as 5-hour shifts at St. David’s and the homeless shelter.  Those shifts are brutal Bubba and a guy needs a filter.  At the ARCH I sit behind a locked glass door but at St. David’s I‘m down in it and mixing it up with the hoi polloi.  Most if not all of the homeless people I‘ve encountered in 6 months working for Austin FreeNet are mentally ill.  I’ve seen drug use, sure, and heard stories believe me—but the folks I deal with on the daily need help and obviously can’t make it on their own.  I’m locked into a different kind of madness but so is almost everybody else so I look sane—on my way to work, eating processed food, passively reading the news about my country at war with smaller and more impoverished nations forever.  Oh shit I’ve opened a can of worms ain’t I?  I’m just resentful that the first draft of this post wasn’t saved and I’ve got to get my writing fix before I head in to the kitchen and load out for a party of 25—passed apps, bar and dinner.  I’m drinking coffee, dark roast what else, and sinking deep into the mind’s eye, letting the heart sing like it do when it’s quiet and there’s no music coming from the twat next door and I can bang keys and write my way through.  I don’t know how long I’ll be able to fund this dream Good Reader, as punk rock as it is.  It’s hard to make it and make it home and devote sessions to these posts and poems.  I can write about whatever the fuck I want and it’s a beautiful thing.  But I haven’t wrote much at all this week and I‘m getting old.  As such, I’ve come to a decision about what to do with your good patronage and I’d like to share it with you.

I pull in around $90 a month on Patreon thanks to my patrons there, and I’m going to devote those funds to a day of searching for work—the real Work.  There are grants to write for, contests to enter and opportunities for a personal journalist unburdened with children or debt.  At least I hope there is and I am going to look for it.  Paying myself $15 an hour, I’ll devote 6 solid hours a month searching for real work, the first 3 or so weeks of the month devoted, maybe, to research and developing an outline on how to best spend those 6 hours.  I suppose I’ll have to brainstorm with PR guru Maureen Ferguson on this and I’m hoping we can come up with something that doesn’t take it out of me or at least furthers the cause.  She is a person of action and she gets me.  Two things I find priceless and indispensable in an ally.  She’s with me, she’s a patron, and you are.  We’ve got each other Good Reader, and isn’t that nice?

If you haven’t already, please consider becoming a Patron.  For as little as $5 a month you’ll be entreated to live recordings, the writing desk, posts and poems and all such ephemera from the savage road of Personal Journalism.  Patrons thus far were able to listen to a recording of Oh Angelina, recorded live at the Driskill Hotel Bar, and a half a page of unread material that never made it into this month’s Coarse Grind.

I look forward to seeing what the world will offer a non-conformist writer in recovery with an anger problem.  Cheers to you, Good Reader.  Hope to see you in the ether and even better at the release for 2031 and No Comebacks next Wednesday at Speck’s Records in Portland OR.

Ab irato,

Stay tuned for news on these releases, readings and broadsides from each collection, designed by Snakes Will Eat You and letter pressed at the Austin Book Arts Center.

Shrieks of Paradise, Corresponcence&Rails#45: The Rigs

In Uncategorized on December 7, 2019 at 11:37 am

via the Rigs

“Bodies never lie.”

In Uncategorized on December 5, 2019 at 11:00 am

When Jordan slithers out from under his rock each morning, dons a shirt and tie–sans the jacket, lest he be mistaken for Joe McCarthy–his life’s work is to besmirch everything America stands for in service of Donald Trump.
Good Guy Brent Larkin

At the expense of a massive debt to them of half a million dollars, they really helped us to grow.
-Conrad Keely, …And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead

But today Devo is merely the house band on the Titanic.
Gerald Casale

Sometimes I don’t know where this dirty road is taking me
sometimes I can’t even see the reason why…
-Townes Van Zandt

Hallo.  Trainer here.  I’m attempting something I’ve hardly ever done and that is front load blog posts for when things get crazy.  Not that shit ain’t batshit now but all the more so, in the coming weeks–4 doubles in a row, Christmas party after Christmas party, printing and binding 550 books and flying across the country are all on the dais and it’s a good thing I’m insane otherwise I’d lose my mind.  January will be dead city and though I hope to be working full time by then it’ll be an opportunity to write and cultivate a Yoga practice, maybe.  Otherwise plan the next jaunt–OH, CAN, AMS and GUATE.  It goes on Good Reader until it doesn’t.  I told you I’d publish 10 books in 10 years and that’s only the beginning of everything I’d like to undertake before I hit 50.  If you haven’t figured it out I’m making up for lost time.  Strangely the time seems to burn by, and faster, when I’m this active.  At least it seemed like I had all the time in the world when I was in my 20s and 30s and waitin’ round to die.  Death seemed far off back then or I acted like it was.  My 20s were bourbon and love and my 30s only differed when I began to wonder if running and gunning was all there was and anyway getting fucked up and fucked.  Sex and drugs and rock and roll was always a dumb story and maybe now we see how prescient the end of the 60s really was.  Not only that but that punkrock is maybe a middle class phenomenon and no underground or street politic will change or alter what’s coming now.

It’s unrepentantly sad, alarming and grotesque that it’s sown up and we blew it bad but I’ll still go out tonight and go to work tomorrow.  I touched on this on my last front-loaded post.  There’s a heavy why to every endeavor now.  Perhaps all the moreso because there isn’t any answer.  I don’t know why we should go on but I know we will.  Until we can’t and we hit the wall and we’re evicted of her beauty and exiled of God’s bounty forever and gone.  The human experiment fails.  We pass this age and the next one passes us.  We lay long like stone past the stars last bright shimmy.  We’re gone the air, gone the mountain, gone the river and the lake, gone the whatfor and aggrandized, gone the grief, gone the backyard, gone the children, the skinheads at the railroad track in the thick, beat suburban night, gone the Marlboro reds in the Fall, the beer and the wine, gone the wild laughter, meditation, the gesture, animal and song, gone the cup, the ride over and after everything we planned and coveted, all we squirreled or shared, after every dread and small fear, every stroke and fawn, after every triumph, tremor and tumult fade and get rubbed out and peeled off it won’t matter if I’ve published 10 books or none, if I write poetry or personal journalism or Part 21 of The Coarse Grind.  It won’t matter if I loved you or saw you and looked you in the eye but I’ll do it anyway.  A book a year every year for 10 or until I can’t, and arms for you and eyes and ears and lips.  Come close and let’s clutch to each other Good Reader, let’s go down together, with beauty and ire, out from this dream of life onto the fevered wings of death and fire, into this diaphanous unspooling of the myth, let’s get flung and heaved and kiss it all goodbye.





Stay tuned for news on these releases, readings and broadsides from each collection, designed by Snakes Will Eat You and letter pressed at the Austin Book Arts Center.

Shrieks of Paradise, Correspondence&Rails#44: Dear Jeffrey

In Uncategorized on November 30, 2019 at 10:40 am
The Office of Jim Trainer
War Room

Bat Manor, TX

Jeffrey Privette
Lap of the Empire

Hippie Town, USA

Warmest Greetings from the War Room-

I’m sitting here drinking a pale ale in the AC.  We had some rain this morning and things are looking up.  Anything’s better than the state on fire w/a maggot Governor away on business.  We are born to Trouble, Jefferey, but I can handle mine.  Can you, Brother?
I think it high time to sing w/God and drink from the vine in an Appropriate place where they don’t care about Texas sports teams.  Being a Champion, like we are, is not limited to Victory.  Champions like us don’t cry about broken collarbones or cracked ribs.  We lick our wounds quietly w/our women and plot only the most bitter revenge.  Sometimes living long enough to watch them fly down in ruin&flames is good enough.  Other times, we sideline it w/a slow blues and a smoke over stimulating conversation.
If you’re having a bad day, end it, as my brother Kevin James used to say and still can be heard saying if you ever make it up to his apartment sized bar in West Philly.  We’re doing a couple of shows together on the east coast in a few weeks.  I’ll have to pipe down about how the Philadelphia Eagles are a bunch of fucking Losers while I’m there.  Those people will shoot you for your shoes.
I’ll be back in time for some Happy Haunting on my favorite holiday of Samhain in Hippie Town.  I’m thinking the Ghouls Ball on mushrooms.  Also heading down to Port Aransas for some much needed and Xanax aided r&r.  I don’t like to do drugs in public so I’ll save my little blue zenpaste for the end of our first night on the Gulf.  With any luck, I’ll be awoken to collard-green omelets&miso infused taters cooked by a thick Italian girl who understands me.
My heart is filled w/the Compassion for all things living, all things dying.  Everything else is War.  They will come w/their Resistance but they are paper-thin and We are Champions.  They’ve been squatting on Our meal ticket long enough.  It’s time to scale the wide walls and eat the Rich people.
Here is part two of my adventures in OK.  I do hope you enjoy it.
Please give my best to the Missus and all the Children even if they’re not your favorite.  Beer soon, and Trouble after.  I look forward to our Deep Counsel.

your Brother,

Shrieks of Paradise, Correspondence&Rails#43: Dear Editor Phil Two

In Uncategorized on November 24, 2019 at 7:34 pm

The Office of Jim Trainer
P.O. Box 49921
Austin TX 78765

Philip Elliott, Editor
Into The Void Magazine
The Great White North
Toronto ON, CDN

1/4/19, 7:42PM

Editor Phil

Happy New Year.  We’ve put another one in the can ain’t we?!  The Year of the Cock began with jaundiced bulging eyes and those first few steps into the barnyard were wobbly and bold.  Who knew the whole thing would be rewarded or undone depending on which career I base my self-esteem on? The first few days of ‘18 were spent standing around a freezing yard in Manor, huddled round with n’er do wells, criminals, dreadlocks and immigrants waiting to go out on a truck.  They were paying $11.75 an hour and I kind of lost my mind thinking I was back in the moving business, after twenty years and 3 cities, bartending jobs making twice that and a deep cast of unbelievably rageful and lust lorn babes and witches, cooing me to sleep in suburban bedrooms or plunging me through the barroom glass.   It was a head trip getting up Phil, putting on the steel-toeds and standing on the hard ground at sunrise in the cold yard–I mean it triggered my fight or flight and I’ve been in FIGHT ever since. My lady did me well on that end this Fall. She soothed me. We laughed and we slept and we read Post Office together.  But now we’re done and it’s Friday night in the city and I’ve got 2 columns in the can and am on point for the relaunch of Letter Day with this half-baked missive to you.  ‘18 was alright. I ended it with a trip below the Tropic of Cancer and sold enough books to get by.  

Good thing we were interrupted, a pause was in order…I said I sold enough books to get by.  That is uproarious mate, fucking unbelievable but it happened. Because of people like you and Heath and my Sister and Aunts and because of a good Brother down near the equator, working in a cobblestone out front a mezcal bar and lit like a cave.  Little Brother came through, Phil. He bought 25 of them thangs and I’m caught between shrugging it off and yelling to the heavens, in tearful thanks–my dreams have come true. Money in poetry is a hard dollar, Brother. Took me maybe 33 years and endless reams of white sheets with dead poems or scrawled lyrics on the other side and nights under a red light reading through a brown prism of mash and ironing out dirty ones and fucking with our clothes on in the ladies’ room.  Poetry is everything, Phil. I know my work teeters like a smoking car and that in my work are streamers, green bottles, back alley toms and vixens as stately as stone, there’s desperation in my work and blood–blood is the hope, there are voices, vices, sages and rue in it and ghosts appear and fade awayPoetry is the row we hoe, it cuts jewels from the dark night and lilts in Chinese whispers.  It’s the way in, out, through and back again. We know this but now it’s taking me places and it’s paying the bills and the luck I feel has put some slack in my bones.  I’m not exploding, though I’m very often on the edge, but letting it resound and burrough deep in me. There comes an ease of confidence when the Universe says yes, Brother—and I believe there is nothing better worth living for.  

I suppose spite will get you through, but me and Lindsey are never going back again.  I feel like I could be a completely different person by this time next year and I want to stay friends and gauge our wrath and triumph through each other.  I’ve heard tell that writing doesn’t come from happiness because if you’re happy then why write? My necessary corollary is if I’ve been able to write through the cutting dark and call all the dogs home then I should be able to crank this out, a note to the Friend, on a Friday night–the worst time to write, a most hollowed out and empty time when traffic streams by and girls laugh loud and high and men dress up and get down to get wasted.  I’m not concerned with them and I mean it this time. It was a weird renunciation drinking in the graveyard at 16 and listening to Black Flag but it only portended of alcoholism and there was nothing dire or righteous about fate in my hometown. We’ve all fought and now the victory becomes pause, repose and otherwise staying straight and getting rattled only at our desks, in front of our machines, the only place we’re ever truly free, and mad.  We’re all mad here.  

Best to you, Brother.  Dare we look into the Year of the Brown Pig and see that it could bring us closer?  That maybe it’s time for me to head up and anyway for us to talk about an anthology and self-publishing, readings and book releases?  Do you happen to know of any bookstores up the Great White North way into supporting independent authors and eager to purchase their work?  Because that’s all it would take, Editor Phil. I’m like the wind and coffee and cheap quarters are what makes the deal to go down.

May Your Crown Be A Halo.

Your Writer,

Jim Trainer
Austin TX

Check out Editor Phil Elliot’s great work and this interview he did about his excellent punk noir epic Nobody Move.  


In Uncategorized on November 24, 2019 at 4:05 pm

We are witnessing the postmodern version of the full-scale gangsterization of the world.
Dr. Cornel West

I want a body on my record.
Deontay Wilder

A great compliment
will come to you in the form
of insecurity hidden behind
a mirror of betrayal.

There’s all kinds of reasons to not believe it, not think about it. Not internalize it. That’s the next thing, right? You might think about it, or read something that upsets you—and you think about it, but then you don’t think about it. And then maybe you think about it later, or maybe you read something else, and so it becomes this awareness in your consciousness. That’s a completely different thing than internalizing it—and making it a truth about your world. Making it fit into the idea in your brain of existence itself. That’s a whole other step. And it’s really challenging.
Roy Scranton

Warmest Greetings from the War Room.  It’s quieter than a tomb at the Writer’s Desk.  The trees out the wide, green window are almost stripped and anyway have become gold.  I’m happy for the change of seasons and any kind of ecological normalcy left us for these dwindling years of the Anthropocene.   Think whatever you want to.  I commented earlier, on an enemy’s feed, about the end and the shrinking window of time we’ve left here.  From me, a comment like that can only mean growth.  In fact it was only weeks ago when I was calling him Asshole Dan on his feed and then tagging him as such on mine.  Full retaliation for the ignorant.  Kill the head and the body will die.  You know, anger and Fuck You and all that, but…this was different.  What he got from me this morning was more about acceptance than peace though there’s probably not much difference and anyway, when the human race is gone I imagine it’ll be nothing but gravy for the planet and whatever species remain.   My fight’s not with him and these days I lean from any kind of fight at all.  I could get mad enough to try and shake the thinking of the hippie bastard or I could blame the rich and oligarchs that did this to us but the truth is that we did this to us–and even if we could somehow and worldwide get on the same page we’re not going to do anything about it and that’s because we don’t want to think about the fact that we are going to die.  It’s that simple but extremely difficult to digest and anyway integrate–not that the end is coming but that the end is already here.  It’s not that capitalism did this to us, not the cluelessness of thin-headed hippies on Facebook or the selfishness of the filthy fucking rich behind wide walls that matter to me now.  We’re all going to die and anyway on the way there get extremely compromised.  The die is cast, the fat is in the fire and the time to change was thirty years ago.

The question becomes not if but why?  When we stop blaming each other we’re closer to accepting that the human race won’t go on.  If the human race won’t go on we’re left with a heavy fucking why, man–the heaviest this species has ever had to contend with.  Why should we go to work, make Art, have kids, fight for healthcare, play the guitar or vote for President when time is only winding down and, in the words of Roy Scranton, all the institutions, structures, and systems we live within are predicated on the indefinite persistence of the present…?  There comes the strangest kind of relief knowing:  not only are you going to die but the whole human race besides.  It’s a strange relief and an incomprehensible dread but either one’s enough to make you batshit and terrified.  I haven’t shit since the Presidential Election but it’s getting better.  I went from gravy tunnelin’ to angry vipers–long skinny shits that bite and burn and need to come out immediately, as in, I think I have to go oh shit I have to go!  It could be worse and it always is somewhere in the Final Century.  This has been the hardest part perhaps, not my devastation but the fact that I know someone somewhere else is dealing with it.  Dead parents and dead kids.  Cyclones and sarin gas.  A government that clubs you in the street or dismembers you behind closed doors.  It’s an uneasy peace I have Good Reader knowing both how good I have it and how little of any fight I offer really matters in the toilet flush of this last epoch.

I’m front loading these posts for the weeks of insanity that are December.  I’m backsliding into the personal because blogs are passe and I want you to have all the info you should require to make it out, buy a book and say Howdy.  One thing’s for sure about the End, it’s given me the moment.  More than Yoga or cocaine, more than upright bass or languidly laying in Roggie’s perfumed bed.  I know that when you and I meet it’ll be only one of so many times.  I know that I will say goodbye to you and everyone I know, and you will say goodbye to me.  It’s all I can do to be present.  Even on a stupid Saturday sipping cold coffee with the neighbor running a compressor what the fuck.  Oh well.  There’s always next week’s post which I’ll probably write in a couple hours.  Come on out, Good Reader, let’s do this while we can.  It’s just us chickens in the land of Nod and we knew this couldn’t last.  We’ve seen this coming since we were born.  Ciao motherfucker.

Stay tuned for news on these releases, readings and broadsides from each collection, designed by Snakes Will Eat You and letter pressed at the Austin Book Arts Center.