Jim Trainer

I GO OUT WALKING

In Uncategorized on August 13, 2021 at 11:57 am

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? 
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