Jim Trainer

TO THE MATTRESSES

In Uncategorized on August 1, 2019 at 9:00 am

Everyone’s lucky, few are prepared.
-Mike Dooley

The blooding process has begun within the democratic world.
Fintan O’Toole

The chick, whose sex cannot be identified without a blood test, will be ready to fledge–or take flight–for the first time in November.
Tim Hauck

I tell people struggling with depression that they are more tuned in to real human experience and emotion than those pushing the positive-vibes-only agenda.
Vanessa Smith Bennett

Chasten
2 :to mark by some ceremony or observation : observe

for Matt Borczon

Well.  We’re really jamming now.  Ain’t it Good Reader.  We’ve acclimated to wild gunners chopping children down, an increasingly militarized and murderous police force, wildfires and whole swathes of species going dead as the dodo.  Straight into the chipper all of us ain’t we but at least we annihilated this week.  Seems dumb to sit in traffic as the sun burns a hole in your roof.  It makes even less sense to take shit from anyone let alone some geek in the food service industry asking what you’d do if a gig came up when you’re scheduled to do a $15 delivery.  High School never ends but neither does temp work if you’re a hustler and an artist like I am.  There’s no dignity in it except that you’re living your dreams but don’t expect any glory.  Not while you’ve got bills to pay and still have to make it in the square world and interview with people you’d rather slap and rip the ID badge off their collared shirt and shove down their fucking throat.  This post isn’t about them, or the end of the world.  It’s about depression which, after 10 long years writing for Going For The Throat, should need no introduction.

Yay the black temper has been with me ever since my Father came back to live with us at 15.  My parents were perpetrating a fraud, at least he was, and I couldn’t do anything about it except smoke cigarettes and listen to Black Flag in the basement.  Drink all his Coors Lite and get arrested for punching out windows at the Landsdowne Ave trolley stop.  There was an anger then and not a good one.  It didn’t burn or inspire.  It was paralyzing and it split me—I disassociated from my home life but became a stranger to myself and had to act like I wasn’t angry while he was around.  When he left again she leaned on me.  I became the de facto man of the house and it was emotionally incestuous and wrong.  I was paying for what he’d done, and for what her Father had done years before.  I was raised to hate myself by a man-hating woman, left to my own devices and without any strong male guidance or coping mechanism whatsoever.  Good Reader.  I didn’t expect to go so—deep.  Ha.  Have we fucking met?  We go deep here, go for the throat and let loose the slipshod reel of a poet’s psyche and cynic’s dream.  Truth is I came here to work it out like I do, and attempt to get to the bottom of why I’m still angry and disappointed and reclusive and down, and utterly without compassion for myself.

I made rent playing music this month.  Something my old man would be proud of.  I guess.  Judging by our last conversation anyway but then again if I were to go by that exchange he’d probably volley some other derision at me and it wouldn’t be enough.  No surprise there and astoundingly coupled with the zero effort he’d shown toward doing what he loved.  She’d only take credit for it but I don’t owe her a damn thing when it comes to my music career or any other.  Barring her own derision and interference which could be viewed as inspiration in its own way.  Which is the wisdom ain’t it.  The key to this locked down morning with the blinds keeping out the white sun, typing in my American flag boxer briefs and sipping Italian Roast with honey.  I need friction.  Derision.  Bad blood.  I need to tell myself it ain’t working because that’s what inspired me before.  I had no support so I give myself none.  The 2 Jims who split back in ‘91 are a boon and a bane.  Your writer is out here doing the thing and making it happen, by hook or by crook and with 4 readings on the East Coast&Midwest next month.  Black Jim’s sitting back in this recliner, hungover from sugar, dirty and malfeasant.  Black Jim’s who I’m at odds wit, and sadly this is how he runs the show.  Black Jim will come up behind me, as I’m playing upright bass at a refugee shelter, tap me on the shoulder and say
Hey mothefucker.  This sucks.  Yeah, you’re playing music but so what.  I’m ‘onna blow these charts over so just do me a favor and hate life when I do—hate your bandmates and the weather and the people in the crowd.  Hate them all and everything until you can get home and crawl back into this hole I made for you.  Fulla sex and sugar and distraction and darkness.

If this sounds crazy to you then to you I say–my name is Jim Trainer and I’m a bullfighting writer, bleeding on the page, an acrobat on fire, flying flaming through the ether and I write to get it down and feel better.  You either hang yourself or you hang it on the wall.  By the time I hit publish this shit will be up there, too—bet.  And I’ll be out again, in its thrall and throng, making my way, pushing til the light of day, doing what I have to do to make it as the world comes crashing and the Final Century winds down to bone and ash, blood and fire.

Ab irato,
TRAINER
Austin TX

LOVE&WAGES

Excited to release Love&Wages at these fine establishments this month:
Sunday August 11 at 7PM
Quimby’s, Brooklyn NY
with Dylan Angell, Ed Askew and Shy Watson
Monday August 12 at 7PM
A Novel Idea, Philadelphia PA
with Charlie O’Hay and Rob Kaniuk
Thursday August 15 at 7PM
Seventh Son Brewery, Columbus OH
with Amy Turn Sharp
For more information and to sign up for Jim Trainer’s Poem Of The Week, please visit jimtrainer.net.  Thanks!
  1. […] that “the wild population of tigers in India has increased by a third since 2015” and the comeback of the California Condor reached one-thousand […]

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