Jim Trainer


In Uncategorized on August 29, 2019 at 11:00 am

When you’re back in your old neighborhood, the cigarettes taste so good…

It was never a revolution nor a civil war. The terrorists are sent by your government.

Maybe in the next life, I’ll be a hero not a criminal…
-The Bronx

2 trips with 2 friends and maybe 2 on my own.  One trip back to wipe down the walls, hit the bathroom and kitchen, mop the floors and get gone.  Uptown.  A 1-bedroom proper in my old neighborhood.  It’s great to have friends (with SUVs) and it’s great to have just what you need although totes full of typewritten pages hardly fit into that category.  I suffer a lifelong regret back to when I had a Kerouac problem.  I fell through suburban backyards and drank cough syrup in graveyards, smoked schwag and Marlboro reds and every poem I wrote that lost, last footloose summer of 1993 was burned and flew up with black wings of ash off a range in the kitchen of my mother’s house.  When winter came I had to jettison most of my things—including my first ever journal, left on a curb in the township and ferried to oblivion on trash day.  Ever since I lost that journal I’ve been saving everything.  Every napkin, flier, typewritten, long hand, ink-scrawled lyric, poem, joke, dream and piece of writing’s been stowed, unceremoniously, in a 10-gallon tote and heaved with me from place to place as I live out these end days as a cash-and-carry pirate of the Final Century.  What makes it worse is a lot of those pages are duplicates, dating back to when I wrote on the President XII.  I didn’t fuck with typewriting ribbon back then, and instead composed poetry punching keys on a carbon sandwich and manual I scored at Saver’s for $17 in 2009.  2009 looks like Heaven from here but even then I knew I was lucky.

About one of the only benefits of these end days is we can see the shits perpetrating the inhumanity and can watch them turn the wheel of Oligarchy in real time.  Hard part is we should see it in ourselves, too.  I know I’m guilty.  Are you?  Chances are, if you’re reading this,  you are.  Point is I’m able to see that being hapless and lucky was just a fantasy.  I’m no dharma bum but a lower-middle class white boy born in the land of plenty, with a couple years of college and acting school and the ability to type a lot of words per minute.  I was born with a leg up but also born afflicted.  I feel shitty often, as this blog can attest but, unfortunately, in the Final Century I get upset with myself for being upset and give myself no quarter as per usual and especially when I start to complain how impossibly hard it is to make it, at times—when you’re an empath with your eyes wide and you got so much to say that the world could give a fuck about.

I can’t blame anyone for my troubles man.  Wisdom tells me maybe I shouldn’t blame myself either and the jewel in the crown is I’m all growed up now, or about to be.  I’ve left the garage.  Come up from the underground and standing in the light of day.  In the too-early morning working the computer lab at the ARCH and trying not to shit my pants pushing 2 Cambros and pulling a wheeled cart in the record-breaking heat.  It’s obscene to glean a little joy here and now but I do Good Reader.  I’ve got Italian Roast with honey getting cold and trees out my window reminding me of a better time smoking Marlboro Ultralights in Abington before Philly melted down and spit me out and I headed down that Americana road to become this grizzled ex-Pat punkrocker typing in his Hilfiger boxer briefs this morning.  It’s incredibly strange to be happy at all, now, as our twelfth summer left together winds down and what would be my Father’s 68th birthday comes around.  I didn’t expect this to be so profound and we know this, Good Reader.  I write to keep the monkey busy but sometimes I catch myself at the writing desk and I’m here to receive and can get overcome with what it all should mean.

The key, I think, to living is death.  Yep and as perfectly contradictory and flawed as that sounds, it feels right.  All this will end Beautiful Friend and we’ll either be standing here missing them or flown and gone and less than ash ourselves.  Death ought to make it, eh?  Set us to rights and put a frame around all this flailing and tumultuous desire—death ought to be the reason why.  Why I’m up early and why I’ve got to sleep at night.  Why I think I’ll french kiss you next time I see you and why I’ll drink water today and eat prunes and avoid dairy.  Death is why the maintenance and death why the repair.  We’re only here for a time, may as well try and make it right.  I’m not talking about the young noise makers or speakers of self-import and politic.  Fuck the young.  Just like they should be saying fuck us, right.  We’re antiquated and we failed the human experiment and we’re all going to die.  That, Good Reader, is exactly why.  Nothing further than the end.  We’ll be there soon.  Let’s live it now and don’t wait.  Not another second.  Let’s do it like it means something and it will.  With beauty and ire.

Austin TX

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Read Jim Trainer in The Coarse Grind at Into The Void Magazine.
  1. […] coupled with a kind and romantic charm.  The night is over. I’m not exactly free now but I’m getting there. I couldn’t handle not being anything like my heroes but the truth is I couldn’t handle being […]

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