Jim Trainer

1.5 TRILLION REASONS NOT TO CARE ABOUT CORONAVIRUS

In Uncategorized on March 19, 2020 at 7:42 am

It’s a self swab.  You do it yourself.
-DJT

I write it myself, edit it myself, censor it myself, publish it myself, distribute it myself and spend time in prison for it myself.
Vladimir Bukovsky

It also needs you to leave it the eff alone. 
Anslee Connell

Monday I shit myself.  I went home at lunch, washed my legs and put on a new pair of pants.  Put the shit pants in the tub.  When I came home from work the second time maintenance unclogged the kitchen sink.  When I turned the spigot the head snapped off.  Water everywhere.  I put the dishes in the tub and the now rinsed-shit pants on the toilet.  Tuesday was.  When I came home Wednesday they’d fixed the spigot.  When I went to put the dirty dishes back in the kitchen sink I had to shit real bad but the now rinsed-shit pants were on the toilet.  So I bent over to get them and pain shot through from under my shoulder like a shiv.  It’s excruciating and I can’t move my arm.  I’m writing this with a Yoga block wedged into my armpit to keep my writing arm propped up on the keys.  It only feels alright when all the blood drains out of it.  The kitchen sink is filled with dishes.  The now rinsed-shit pants are back in the tub.  I write this because I said I would, 4 years ago and on the heels of a frustrating and mostly dumb sexual negotiation.  I’ve kept my word and at least 600 of them up here every Thursday.  I missed a week, working last holiday season, which is probably when I blew it all out anyway.  My bowels and my arm and recalcitrant blood vessels in my brain.  I overdid it then.  I move through the world, malfunctioning.  I’m in horrible pain and limping along, exploding in my jeans walking ghetto streets but unable to move anything soon’s I get on the bowl.  Oh yeah and I’m full of poetry.

The stuff comes out first thing in the morning.  Before anything terrible gets a footing and before I remember my enemy.  When I’m not yet sore or weary.  And I get it down.  Writing poetry satisfies me in a way that nothing else does.  I make petition there.  Blaze through the desert blind.  Crash Cuban weddings and laugh at the end of the world in shopping mall parking lots with a girl in a black leather and Jimmy Carter pin.  The days are bright and filled with pain.  Nights I’m concussed.  Non-plussed.  Incredulous I survived but dumbfounded what for.  I get it down in the morning and it’s a hard proof.  In a slipshod world.  That I was here and that my pain made purchase, that there’s wisdom in the marrow of suffering but truth only in blood.  Triumph is Eminence Front with the windows down doing 50 in a 30 on 11th Street and smoking those jerkoffs sitting too long at the red before crossing over 35.  Victory is strange, mostly because it wasn’t planned.  Survival is watching them all crack, sink down to what’s basic and what matters.  Freedom is knowing that nothing much does.  Pain and fear are the tests.  The arena.  And so are our days now.  My right arm’s gone to sleep writing this.  It’s always raining here.  Who will read these words in only 10 years?  What can we glean from capitalism and isolation and putting anything above the human but misery?  Who’s to say all this suffering was for no fucking reason, that we went on bellyaching and blathering for nothing?  I am.  Everything that was beautiful still is.  It just had to leave this world to stay that way.

My neighbor the school teacher’s home all the time now.  He’s out there in the dark morning when I leave.  Everyday there’s a new amalgamation of houseplants and day chairs like a fresh obstacle course on the way to my car.

“Just keeping busy,” he says.

Bet you are Pal.

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  1. […] water and anyway throw back some soup and bacon until the dishes pile up and the sink is clogged (again) and the stupid lazy weekend is over.  Ok, I read a novel.  The weekend wasn’t a total […]

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