YOU’RE LIVING ALL OVER ME, SHAKEY BUTTS & BODY NAZIS AND THE LIFESTYLE WAR OF THE NOVEAU RICHE…SEX IN THE AFTERNOON—WHAT ELSE?…ALL MY HEROES DON’T KILL PEOPLE, SAINT MIKE RIDES AGAIN…”Kids don’t vote,” FAILING SOCIETY AND SECURING A VOTING BLOCK IN THE SHARPS-BIN OF AMERICA…HOW MUCH FOR THAT BABY PENIS IN THE WINDOW?….PUNK’S NOT DEAD IT JUST SUCKS NOW, ANTI-VAXXERS & THE RED BANNER OF NEW YORK HARDCORE
“20oz. of pink, sugar-flavored water ain’t the best but neither were gummed Xanies and white-label rye after blowing it out on South Philly mornings in the Year of the Cock.” —SHAKIN’ IT, BOSS
COMING AT JESUS, BUMMING SMOKES IN PARADISE…BLACK HELICOPTERS&THRIFT STORE BETTIES AT DAWN…HOLY WAR IN THE LAND OF FIRE, IT’S THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT AND I DON’T FEEL FINE…THE MAGGOT TURNS, GOVERNOR GREG ABBOTT IMMUNO-COMPROMISED & SPIRITUALLY CRIPPLED…FOREVER OR 8.5 TRILLION…THE PIGGY IS NOT FORGIVEN, SAINT MIKE NAILS KARL ROVE TO THE CROSS
“Social media is a contradiction in terms,” she said, blowing my mind with her cool blue tone. “You’re interesting,” I tell her and cough. The afternoon sun was on me, I had 2 in the can and 1 up on Patreon. I had time. She didn’t but she humors me and I like to make her laugh. “Is it so hard to imagine that creatives could make it on Patreon in the Final Century?” “Nope,” she quipped. “And it suits your sensitivities.” A way with words, this one. And everything else. “True enough, peach. I just feel connected there, like a DJ, like A COLUMNIST.” Yelling blew me out, I hacked in short sharp rasps. I told her to come over and hung up the phone. She didn’t so I got up. Closed the glass doors. Drank my water. Took my pills and headed down Castle Hill for a dark.
BLACK DREADS IN THE FLOWERING PLUM, KRISTEN ALLIS URFFER WAGES WAR ON THE AQUIFER…SO LONG NEW IBERIA, BETWEEN A CRIME SYNDICATE AND A FIRE SALE, BROTHER JAMES FEELS THE SQUEEZE IN PASCAGOULA…MR. WORST-CASE SCENARIO STRIKES AGAIN, BUMMER AFTER BUMMER FOR PERSONAL JOURNALIST JIM TRAINER WHILE HAVING SEX AT DAWN….BRAIN-DAMAGED IN HOSTILE CITY, SORDID PR ON THE RIVERFRONT…….TONY DANZA GOES TO STOCKHOLM…TELEPHONE CALL FROM HELL, THE REVEREND CALLS FROM THE ‘666
These are my headlines. The personal is the political. Heard from Breann, back home. Says being connected gives her great anxiety in a Facebook message early this morn. Phoebes is worried, like a good Jewish mother and fierce mama bear. Little Sister’s sloughing it out in Woodstown. She got a funky garden and works in it with her boyfriend. Big Sis is holding it down at my Dad’s old place, tanning in a pool bistro with 3 dogs and a cat. Life is good but it’s ending. Nothing’s really changed. Except that I’ve surrendered all control and reach out through the medium to connect with you.
Patreon feels like radio did in the aughts. I know you’re out there. Trade-tiers are the new currency, especially as I can only make what I report to the state. What’s your heart in? And how much does it cost. Mine’s poetry, Jack, and the written word. I like paper and columns of text thereon. Let’s make a deal. The real purchase is your heart ain’t it. All we have is each other. Why don’t we celebrate that, while we can, kick against the pricks with kvelling intimacy and love tough as dirt. If you don’t know I love you. Unless you’re my enemy then fuck you and anyway I’ll see you on the streets motherfucker.
When your days consist of buying cigarettes and making copies you’ve got to get creative. Drop into yourself. Let things be poetic. That’s not so easy. Everything might be suspect in the Final Century but I hope that everything’s not a sign. The news doesn’t help. Not for the panic or if you’re looking for a sign. The way this media wollops us, feeds into us, minute-by-minute isn’t good homie. Not the artificial light and not the snap and pat stories of everything being great on the idiot channels or everything-not-being-great-in-a-passive-way on NPR. But poetry, yeah…it’s not so easy walking around with your skull-cap pulled back from raw years bent over a mechanical, banging it out and letting it roll. The worlds within. Whoa. And when you peek your head out. Go to Staples or something the obviousness of things takes on a sparkling resonance. The story of the street is a song and your whole body is humming along with Martin down on Congress bald and lean, Alex behind the counter on 6th with sass and a woman seated in a kind of lotus position, on the corner at the crosswalk of 10th&Lamar. A tide of brown cresting up her tee-shirt, and ass on ground with her head bent almost all the way into it. Racked by some howling unheard sadness. How’s that for poetry motherfucker? —on Patreon
We’re living in a post-traumatic world. Lucky for me I came preloaded with the stuff and PTSD is just another day in paradise. I’m a professional writer, whether or I get paid or not, which I don’t. I’d like to impress upon you however that I’ma need help breaking through. Flame-wars and glad handing and stirring up the shit aren’t bad ways to spend your time but they’re ancillary to what I must do before I die. Meet me on Patreon and we can talk about it. All my personal journalism is up there these days. And readings. And songs and poems and what’s wrong with you? Is it so hard to comprehend that this is just how Artists make it in the Final Century? It’s not financial for me but a question of value. Country simple I wanna know you’re reading me and that you want to be there. —Jim Trainer writing on Patreon
How’s your epoch? I’m non-plussed and determined, stalking the pre-dawn like a senior citizen when all the stores are closed and I won’t have to see their faces. I’m writing again, and for an audience, and that’s the difference. My reprieve from posting here had less to do with you and more to do with my own health, and then feeling like I was yelling into the void besides. I know you’re reading me and without you I probably wouldn’t write at all. But I need some kind of connection to you. Some accountability on both ends. Your support is my fuel, and I’m asking for more, as I can finally rally for the longhaul. Used to be I was running for the money and the flesh and as long as I got it down I could go into work the next morning. I’ma need more now. On one hand you’ll be supporting me on Patreon and on the other you’ll be getting an incredible amount of content, unfiltered and unmined and safe from the eyes of peccaries and nonchalants who have roundly damned and doomed us with their ambivalence on fascism. I love you.
Jim Trainer is a communicator. Growing up in the hardcore scene of the early 90’s taught him everything he needed to know about real work. Jim Trainer believes in rock and roll. It may be our only salvation in this dark world. He’s carried the torch for independent media, broadcasting ... Continue reading →
Going for the Throat 