Jim Trainer


In Uncategorized on August 22, 2019 at 9:51 am

We’re trapped in the belly of this horrible machine, and the machine is bleeding to death…

Anxiety.  Whoa.  Pocked sleep and wrecked bowels.  It’s a nightmare but it’s hard to parse—where does this disease begin and the festering swirl of the world end?  I can’t remember the sanguine, I mean, I think things were better, at least it felt like they were.  But another voice, inside my head, speaks—a wisdom that isn’t looking back and isn’t caught in the current chipper of this reality and this voice of wisdom tells me things weren’t ever better.  There was so much I couldn’t see back then, when I thought I was happy.   There’s even the proof of Art.  My collections of poetry and prose have mass and a weight that tips the scales, up from the suicide side and can assuage a great and grave anxiety that’s got me cross-eyed and typing this in the dark dawn with the door to the carport wide.  I can’t see otherwise so I cut all the lights and put my iPad on Night Shift mode.  I’m drinking Ruta Maya with the traffic streaming by.  I’m due in at 8:30 today after doing 7 yesterday, falling out with Vegan ice cream and recording some tunes for Julian before calling it a day and suffering the rest of the night with painful, Vegan gas.

I’m writing this now because otherwise I don’t know when.  I’m booked to the teeth mostly and even when I’m not working I am working.  Whatever and back to gratitude.  This post will have to serve as an imperfect and thorny prayer.  The problem with the morning is that it’s the morning.  I can’t see straight and I’m caught between.  I can’t exactly relax writing before work, though this is one of my few attempts and I can’t sleep knowing I have to go to work and face a raging cunt in the kitchen and corporate twats on the phone with your boss when you’re on your way and anyway the entrance to the job is a good 1/8th of a mile from the van and you’ve got IBS and are pushing 2 Cambros and pulling a cart with your serving whites hung and dragging behind.  All this is better than having to get up at 4 and load a 16’ stake bed before heading into the puke of North Texas to deliver electrical supplies for a buck forty a day.  But even that’s better than coming home to find the police torturing your family and then having to flee, wife and kids in tow but losing her and your youngest to the raging swell of a wide river that flows between you and freedom.  By the way the Police and the system I describe in that last exercise of gratitude were created by the policies of the country I live in.  A country that hasn’t raised its minimum wage in 10 years and allowed economic catastrophe to incur while fighting at least 3 meaningless forever wars and is better than almost anywhere else in the world.

Gratitude is a motherfucker.  So’s knowing that this is exactly the life I wanted and that’s why I got it, Bubba.  Cross-eyed and up early, tripping over an upright bass and ironing board, tour receipts and poetry collections and totes of shit everywhere.  Saint Michael’s hung above this mess and over the closet of this soon-to-be-vacated garage apartment where I’ve lived for the last 16 months.  This place looked like paradise to me back then.  I was fleeing a grifting scumbag of a roommate, a toilet paper-hoarding ponce who got me for over $1,700 before I loaded up the stake bed of the work truck and inched slowly down 45th street in the rain, got my gear in, the bed and writing desk and started the Life I agonize over this morning.  It’s been real and it’s been fun but it hasn’t been real fun.  Time to GTFO, leave here and leave this post in your care.  We’re not who we thought we were.  I’m out of coffee and I need to iron my serving whites.  Back into it–the chipper, the American dim.  Keep me stepping into the light of day Good Reader, with raging gas and and an anger problem.  My worst days now are better than the best ones I had before I got free.  I guess you could say I’m thankful motherfucker.

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Read Jim Trainer in The Coarse Grind at Into The Void Magazine.
  1. […] impossibly hard it is to make it, at times—when you’re an empath with your eyes are wide and you got so much to say that the world could give a fuck […]

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