Jim Trainer

Archive for June, 2019|Monthly archive page


In Uncategorized on June 27, 2019 at 8:11 am

It’s not your imagination, Doug.

We have no reason to trust the police or the cops or the courts.
-Mary Hooks

For each of the past four years, more Americans have died from drug overdoses than were killed in the wars in Vietnam and Iraq combined.
Zachary Siegel

He made a dishonest case for war. Thirteen years before George W. Bush lied about weapons of mass destruction to justify his invasion and occupation of Iraq, his father made his own set of false claims to justify the aerial bombardment of that same country. The first Gulf War, as an investigation by journalist Joshua Holland concluded, was ‘sold on a mountain of war propaganda’.

For the past nine years I’ve been struggling to put into words the anger and fear, the survivor’s guilt, and PTSD…I felt overwhelmed watching the news, it seemed like every month in 2015 there was something new and horrible…I started this poem.
Devi S. Laskar

At a check-in for Yoga.
“How’s your Monday?!”  Every note struck with each syllable ascends.  She sounds like she’s on a kid’s show and anyway insane.
“Alright (MONOTONE).”
“That’s not bad!”
“So you’d like to drop in then…?”  She changes the subject.  That’s better.
Asking someone how they are and debating the answer is two times more annoying than the exchange need be and anyway psychotic.  I took the class.  I felt better.  My Monday was alright.

My buddy got charged $349 for health insurance this month.  That’s a 17,350% increase from his usual premium of $2.  When he called the insurance company he was put on hold for 50 minutes while he got ready for work.   They’d have to transfer him to another department.  He held there for about 10 minutes before they told him there was a problem with his 2017 tax credit.  He’d have to fill out 2 forms, an 8962 and a 1095A, with the IRS.  Once he did that he’d have to call them back.
“Ok,” he told them.  “But you need to refund the $349 you took from my account without my permission.’
They said they couldn’t do that, told him he’d have to call the Marketplace and gave him the number.  It was the same number he just called and waited for almost an hour on before they transferred him to them.  He told them that $350 is a lot more than $2 and he never gave them permission to take that much money out of his account anyway and he needed to get to work after spending more than an hour on the phone with them.  They said they still couldn’t refund his money so on the way to work he called his bank.  He cancelled the payment but not before series’ (plural) of questions–the first set verifying him with the bank, the second with the dispute center.  They asked for his social security number, then his email address.
“I just gave you my SS#”, he told them, “why do you need my email?”
“Ok, sir, we’ll just mail you the results of the dispute then.”
“No, I didn’t say you could do that either.”
My friend lives in a garage apartment, he’s been trying to get an address there since he moved in over a year ago.  The landlord dragged his feet on it but finally took the initiative when he thought about individuating the utilities.  But my friend still didn’t know what the address was even after repeatedly asking.  The last time someone sent something to his address it was a credit card company and marked UNABLE TO DELIVER, sent back and the account was cancelled.  P.O. Boxes aren’t valid addresses for credit card and health insurance companies.  He gave them his email.  He was on hold when he got to work and started pulling and loading the van with his phone in the crook of his neck.  They’d have the issue resolved in 10 days.  In the meantime, during Yoga last night, he felt strange rumblings and had to leave the class.  He decided to go and see a GP.  He figured he had 10 days left insured, at least until his bank cancelled the unauthorized payment.

He was part of the system, ya dig?  Like you, like me and everybody.  Like we should feel lucky to.  Guess it could be worse but I am tired of living that way.  You know, constantly telling yourself how good it is doesn’t sound good to me.  The lady doth protest too much and all that shit.  All I know is, it shouldn’t be so hard.  Why do we need a tax break to pay monolithic and obsolete healthcare providers?  And for Christ–why are we talking about war?  Right, election season.  I’m glad we’re talking about refugees but between keeping them out and letting them in won’t any candidate speak up for a living wage for the rest of us?  They talk about War and the dark other.  They fight with each other but never question if they should be paid a living wage and have government healthcare.  And these aggressions, overseas and in the ravaged and calamitous middle East–you know who will settle these scores?  Our boys, and girls or however they identify (way to go) and who will only come back scarred, insane and … as likely to kill themselves as they are to kill the enemy, whoever that is.  S’ok, we’re living this through, again and again, watching this country stoop lower and lower as the sun comes closer and the air becomes increasingly rarified and tons of ice disappear off the caps.

Somebody should holler or expatriate and by somebody I mean me.  I’ll be out on the road this summer, bet, and scrambling to keep my bank account up to 4 digits.  I’ll keep you posted on the shows, books and readings and I’ll be doing battle with the beast at hand—that is the roaring black torpors of depression.  What else?

See you at the show motherfucker.

48372652_10218508147554512_956004276356775936_nI am thrilled to announce that Yellow Lark Press will be releasing No Comebacks this year.  Over forty poetic meditations on the champions of American boxing—working class fighters, dancers and jabbers, griots, gamblers and grifters and warriors all.  A wonderful collection from the brilliant poet Will StenbergNo Comebacks is a human tapestry embroidered in blood and stitched with sweat.  Step into the ring with No Comebacks this year, through Yellow Lark Press.  


Shrieks of Paradise, Correspondence&Rails#22: From An Outlaw Scumfuc

In Uncategorized on June 21, 2019 at 9:00 am



In Uncategorized on June 20, 2019 at 9:24 am

Our beliefs are just our thoughts repeated over and over.
-Angie Knight

I remember there were a lot of words in the air at the time, rhetoric zinging back and forth on how to fight, resist, right and wrong ways to be, etc.—and maybe in response a part of me was craving a quieter version of myself, to be a conduit and hold channels open without falling prey to (or simply reflecting back) the anxieties around me/us.
-Dao Strom

The very best ones are sent from heaven by Buddy Holly.  The rest take the better part of an afternoon to rip off.
Roky Erikson

The word melancholia is still used in psychiatry (it is identified as a ‘subtype’ of clinical depression in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) and as a general term for despondency.

Warmest Greetings from the War Room.  I’m getting down to it, cup 4 of the dark stuff, chased with water and taking me to the heights (depths) of Personal Journalism.  We dive down deep here, ain’t it though, mining for the Wisdom maybe even a little glory–why not?  Shouldn’t we have something to show for twenty hours in 2 days humping chafers and slinging Moscow Mules other than a grand bi-weekly and leftover brisket and bread?  The best thing about working in the “Hospitality” business is you never have to take it home.  The last thing on my mind is work as I’m sleeping late or soaking in a hot salt bath and anyway recovering physically from the Pirate life and thee glaring reason I keep creating Art and find for more and further ways to do it for the rest of my life.  Point is these walls, and this door to be specific, are what I work for.  As mentioned, I write with said door open but I’ve got my own corner of the universe here, in Crack Alley where the transients roll through with the dim and obtuse hours but never think twice about fucking with a crazy Cracker from the East Coast in bright-orange silverfish boxers and brandishing a mic stand.  I popped out with it just a couple days ago but all it was was a possum trying to get a taste from the recycling bin.  My recycling bin is a cart “mistakingly” absconded from a grocery store in town that sells you bags, and the mic stand’s been with me for some years now, going back to a 3-hour casual I did for shit pay and shit people.  The possum just trying to get by in these end days of the Final Century.  Aren’t we all and ain’t it though.

Yay, life is good for this Writer and you won’t catch me without giving thanks and thanking these Gods who gave me…well, everything.  They gave me the muse and a voice, and the body and mind to use it.  They gave me this one Life and I am trying to be here for you.  Good Reader.  Yay, we laid the good Doctor low last night and it was an alcoholic sendoff that would’ve touched the man, yay even made him proud.  I told a story about the Petulant Generation and actively reminded myself to be present, for my people, in their thrall and in they’re arms.  Bet.  Now I’m sitting here drinking reheated-with-honey with the door open and it’s quiet as a tomb.  No one on the phone and trouble and bad drama at bay.  One could argue that this is where the trouble starts–when everything is ok and after all these years surviving my own blues I tend to agree.  I’ve got work in my hands though and that’s what’s different now.  Were it not for a Gemini witch I might not be living this way, as the Artist I always wanted to be; and were it not for another Gemini woman I might not be here at all.  June is probably my second favorite time of year, the air is charged with Mercury and the heat and dog days ain’t set in, sticking you to your shorts and belting you with the heat until you’re nothing but an ascetic and devotee of Barton Springs.  I hope to get out to the healing waters more than ever this summer.  And I’d like to hereby declare that my mission is to book at least 1 gig every weekend between now and January 1.  It’s a heady goal and I’m bound to fail but if you don’t shoot for the stars how will you ever get your feet off the ground?

The worst trouble used to be no trouble at all.  Now I’ma just bask in it.  The inner life is a refuge and a garden.  The grounds of my psyche are acres now.  We’ve got this time together, you and I, and–isn’t that nice?  See you at the Springs motherfucker and up and under the hot lights.  If winning was everything we would’ve said quit a long time ago.  Love ya, Doc.

Love y’all.
Austin TX


I am thrilled to announce that Yellow Lark Press will be releasing No Comebacks this year.  Over forty poetic meditations on the champions of American boxing—working class fighters, dancers and jabbers, griots, gamblers and grifters and warriors all.  A wonderful collection from the brilliant poet Will StenbergNo Comebacks is a human tapestry embroidered in blood and stitched with sweat.  Step into the ring with No Comebacks this year, through Yellow Lark Press.  





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Brian “Doc” Lamont It is with tremendous sadness that we announce the passing of Brian “Doc” Lamont. Doc was a faithful member of the Austin Facial Hair Club, a brother, a friend, and an outrageous talent. Everything Doc touched turned into art: words, paintings, decoupage, sculptures, the napkin sitting on the bar. Never a more talented human have we known. It’s no wonder he took pride in being a young curmudgeon, having to deal with so much inside of him yearning to be expressed, to get out of his body and be shared with the world. We are beyond grateful that he shared himself, which was his ultimate masterpiece, with us. Doc’s life was his art, regardless of any medium. He saw things differently than most of us, through a filter that made the grisly, beautiful, and the exquisite, appalling. He understood the balance that most spend their lives seeking. It was both a gift and a curse. We were lucky to know Doc, lucky to have him in our club, lucky that he was a member of our tribe and family. He loved our club and we loved him. He took the club as seriously as Doc could, always volunteering to help whenever needed, even taking the Quarterback role in an upcoming Darts fundraiser, one of Doc’s favorite pastimes. What we have lost, the Universe has gained. Doc now has an infinite palette to scribble his musings and express his brilliant soul. We will miss him more than we can express and send our loving sympathies to his mom and the rest of his family and friends throughout the world. May Doc rest in peace, while continuing to disrupting the cosmos. HAIKU – 2 "We are all stardust but shit always falls apart entropy's a bitch from the cradle to the grave, this is all there is so don't fuck it up crimes and convictions are different things so work on your cardio" ~ Brian “Doc” Lamont (@doctorgrosz @docsdoodles )

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Live in the Writer’s Room ATX

In Uncategorized on June 13, 2019 at 3:35 am





In Uncategorized on June 6, 2019 at 9:29 am

I don’t cook, I don’t clean
I don’t have the energy for the scene
and I don’t got no car
I don’t worry about the price of gasoline…
Circle Jerks

Clean clothes piled on the writer’s chair.  Dirty clothes on the floor.  Dishes, sink.  Leftovers on the counter.  Nernie beside me on the loveseat, where I write in boxers and black socks with the blinds up and the door wide.  I’m out of honey, I’ll have to drink the shit black unless Brother Julian doesn’t mind I have a spot of the Mesquite he bought from the Native Texas Boutique last month. The wisdom of this mess is that it’s pretty bad even horrible at times and I’ve never had it so good.  Saturday I did a wedding for 190.  Cocktailing in the hot sun, then serving all night until 10.  Sunday I was late but captained a party for 8 hours and unloaded an hour back at the shop for 9 all day.  The difference between these 2 gigs is staggering and reflects the aforementioned wisdom—it could be worse and it sometimes is but it’s also better.  Doing parties with my full-time is hardly a drag because my man R.O.’s a real pleasure to do it with.  Temping always sucks but I’ll do it if it’s bartending, away from the fracas and fray and with the potential to make some additional dollars in tips.  I didn’t want this to be a work journal, rather—I should be keeping one and anyway, like I told Cole Noppenberg in the Writer’s Room, the best writing practice is always more.  We both know I’ma need to get it out of my system and the details of life, oft forgot, can come in handy from a psychological perspective as well as a creative one.  Country simple, if you want to write good, write bad and I could stand some other practice besides falling out like an addict with junk food and YouTube after at least 8 hours on my feet anyway.

Ah, heard back from Brother Julian and I won’t have to suffer this bitter light roast without some sweetness.  An apt metaphor.  I’ve set up living absconded from the harshness of life.  I don’t do too many days in a row working and my workday is never the same.  I don’t have a car payment, no student loans and my lease here is month to month.  I suffer the trappings of being transient—rough digs and a mostly isolated existence living grisly and solo but it’s nothing compared to what I’d be going through if I felt trapped or hemmed in by a full-time life.  I’ve felt that way at several junctures and it was never good.  It could be argued that these periods of contraction always preceded an expansion.  Got to dig your roots down deep you want to sway your branches, and you’ve got to pay your dues you want to sing the blues.  But I don’t know.  Getting up at 4 and driving a 16’ stake bed through North Texas was one of the hardest times of my life and ending up in the Land of Eternal Spring at the Year of the Cock’s close was a peak experience for me.  You could say I turned it out, which is true enough, but I wouldn’t have done it without a lot of help.  From family and Brother Julian, now that I mention it, who not only flew me down but booked a reading with a 25-sold guarantee.  My grandmother left me enough to buy a car and get my teeth fixed.  Who knows where I’d be today without that leg up?  Lastly, my new boss and the company I’ve signed on with are making the slog of food service less barbaric and adrenaline draining.  Last but not least is you, who, not only buy my merchandise but fund my dream by believing in me.  I know I’ll sell 100 books so I publish 125.  Every year.  I know I’ve got you, reading here and even helping me go further—to the territory on future jaunts expanding my residence on Earth.  I’ve become journalist with your readership and it’s everything I ever wanted.

But it could be better.