Jim Trainer

2031

In Uncategorized on November 15, 2019 at 9:43 am

Come on baby, eat the rich,
put the bite on the son of a bitch…

Come with me, the writer is saying to the reader. There is a story I have to tell you, there is something you need to know. The writer is both an eye-witness and an I-witness, the one to whom personal experience happens and the one who makes experience personal for others.
Margaret Atwood

Have you ever arrived on time?

The time to come together, and put politics aside, is now.
Brian Cassidy, CEO of the Austin Chamber of Commerce

All I can say is get ready.
Chris Hedges

Well.  There’s frost on the window.  I’ve been in my bathrobe since 5PM yesterday.  I’ve shut the NPR off.  I’m drinking coffee.  The only thing for me to do is live my dreams as the world crumbles.  Ain’t it.  I can’t say it’s gotten harder, in light of our demise.  The art and the life are flowing.  I’m swinging wide and clean.  Booking flights and deposits to the printer on my credit card.  It’s harder emotionally even if the mechanicals are finally figuring themselves out.  The dusks are hard because I know they’re numbered.  Being a consumer is hard–every purchase and turn I take is painful.  I know I’m in the belly of the beast, and the whole rig of the human race is a hulking slab, tilting off the edge and the days that pass are only counting down.  Yet I go on.

 

Into the sun.  Out of her arms into the rack.  My bone sifted to sand my blood to mud and the carbon on my breath shook and peppering the black between stars.  My dream and my love sliding and oozing out, spreading cold and plasma-thin.  My song the dead ringing of stone.

The breaks and odds will spike and dip sharply.  On the other end they’ll starve and from over here we’ll watch.  I wonder will the jackboots still call out for War, will the assertion of biological need across the planet be deemed only as other, terroristic?  Will humans only hold to the deathead, their children, their republic–their cars and paper and metal money?  Will their Gods be as beneficent and helpless, as magnificent and impotent as they are today?  Will the cities be only jewels round Kali’s bloody neck and will the skies go dark, gastric-blue as her tongue?  Will I see my Brother, finally see, my Sister is me and the pain was only pilgrimage, the separation only cleaved me to return, will death finally be religion, will we head into it joyously without charm, far-flung and naked as our birthday into the maw black, the King James black, tsuba black, the picotee black, hemichordate black, bourbon black, grandmama black, the black at the back of the roof of your mouth and out-your-ass black?

Is this the Fall I have always felt and why I’m never anywhere but getting off the bus in corduroys and low-top Pumas with my Father standing there, smoking a Marlboro, throwing me the ball and then me to Frank Wren and then, years later, Fugazi’s s/t is coming out a pinstriped burgundy and cream-colored F-150 and when it pulls over, I hop in and light one, roll the window down, it’s cold and it feels good being young and unencumbered, first hits of anger pure and staunch-electric in my green bomber and 10-hole docs and black jeans rolled at the cuff, it could be forever those Fall afternoons now that my Father’s gone and I’m gone the hometown.  It is.  This is forever now.  I’m young and I’d never know as much or be as unwilling to forget, before irascible irons of class set in, Community College, homelessness, rape, War in:  ’91, ’03, ’04, ’05, ’06, ’07, ’08, ’09, ’10, ’11 and then ’14, ’15, ’16, ’17’ 18, ’19 until now, alcoholism, spirituality, wreathing love and lust through lost and found morning bell Winter and cornfield-summer days, Art and you and me and before we never had a chance, those pre-snow, smell of wet stone, grey East Coast Fall days are forever now, every day, frost on the window this morning as we get thrown and the cold black curve of eons bends to edge us out, and the end of love and struggle only needs a number as a signifier and to commemorate the end, beautiful friend, of the Anthropocene.

2031, JIM TRAINER’S SIXTH FULL-LENGTH COLLECTION OF POETRY IS OUT NOW THROUGH YELLOW LARK PRESS. 
ORDER YOUR COPY, AT 25% OFF FOR THE NEXT 3 DAYS,  HERE.  
SIGN UP AND SHARE THE POEM OF THE WEEK AND I’LL WRITE YOU A POEM!
SEND ME YOUR ADDRESS AND I’LL WRITE YOU A LETTER!
PART 20 OF THE COARSE GRIND, MY MONTHLY COLUMN ON THE CREATIVE LIFE, IS LIVE AT INTO THE VOID.
NO COMEBACKS BY WILL STENBERG IS OUT NOW THROUGH YELLOW LARK PRESS.  ORDER YOUR COPY HERE.  
Stay tuned for news on these releases, readings and broadsides from each collection, designed by Snakes Will Eat You and letter pressed at the Austin Book Arts Center.

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