Jim Trainer


In Uncategorized on August 15, 2019 at 10:51 am

What fresh Hell is this?
Virginia Konchan

Hope was a signpost pointing
straight in the air…
Linda Pastan

and you flash a wave. Hello! Your eyes are still
bright, the blue color of deep water on maps…
Cate McGowan

What would you trade me for?
The National

Hello from the Road.  The readings are going great and I’ve been provided for—everywhere from Brooklyn to Worthington there’s been a roof overhead and bacon in the pan.  It’s a good life because you’re in it and I’m glad to pay visit, escape the annals and prison of social media, take to the territory and see your smiling face.  Poet Amy Turn Sharp’s eyes are bluer than any  dream, like a cold glass of water and Charlie O’Hay’s stories about the All In The Family bar are side-splitting, too-funny-to-be-true yarns about the old life in the American Century.  I wake up to poetry and parking tickets and I have long conversations on the PA Turnpike listening to Psalmships.  I’ve sold 16 books and 5 broadsides and that’s not even counting orders online.  Touring is the only life for me and my training is serving me well.  I’d be hard pressed to present you with anything from out here where I’m living in the moment going 100mph through Tuscarora or floating cooly past midnight on the Chinatown bus.  I’ve learned some things about myself on the road and though I can’t call it I’ll leave ‘em here for later or as a document.

Point is things are too good on the road to even try and come through with the lowlight reel and what’s become di rigueur here.  Yes 10 years writing at Going For The Throat’s been a decade in the dumps ain’t it.  Doldrums and disaster, diaphanous and depraved.  Not this time Good Reader.  And not today, Satan.  Bet, when, I’m doing the work there isn’t anything wrong—well, besides more than a couple hundred dollar flight-change fee and three hundred owed to the scabrous cunts of the PPA.  Hostile City always takes a part of me and the road does the rest, though it’s a different exhaustion I’m working with.  The J out of Williamsburg at 11 on a Sunday with New York out the window, incandescent over the dark water and full of itself affords a hard-worn wisdom.  You can’t get much better than Ohio in the meantime sipping Jungle Love roast in a quiet suburb on an iPad reminding you of a software update every fucking 7 seconds.

Ok—nevermind, I’ve changed my mind.  What I learned on tour is too grim to share here, especially in light of how well this intro came out.  It was meant to be an intro anyway, to a post I wrote last week on being sick and living out the end days of the Final Century getting shit sleep and not being able to shit besides.  But why bring you down, even if that’s all I’ve ever done over the years?  It’s too early in the evening to get catty, Gentlemen as she used to say, though our life and love together is a long time gone.  That’s what coming home can do, too—show you the passing of time, how much you’ve grown and anyway how less of us there is around but plenty more love required.  I will say I know now more than ever that what love is is presence.  In fact presence is better than love because it’s not an idea.  All I ever want is to be seen and that’s what we’ve been doing with this blog ain’t it.  Stripping the sheen to get to what’s real.  I like my truth simple, everything else is a lie and anyway we’ve made lean here, all the glories and pain, the death, birth and bright shine of a collapsing star and dog-roses blooming in the junkyard wild.  You’ve joined me in the inner chamber and like this we’ve lived together.  The road closes the circuit and loops round this thing we’re in it for.  I’ve much to report from the road, the grislies I checked myself from sharing and the soft, green air of late summer on the East Coast, where the end of the world doesn’t seem so bad.

Love y’all.
The Territory

TONIGHT at the
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!


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