Jim Trainer

Archive for 2022|Yearly archive page

END OF THE BLUES

In Uncategorized on May 10, 2022 at 9:20 pm

pack light
what you’re running from
is already there…


I can’t parse my own depression from imminent totalitarian rule. In the meantime I gotta make a living and either stay below the federal poverty level to stay insured, or pay a hefty premium. Any way you shake it I am broke. A motor mount from devastation. Rolling teeth like dice in this gamble of life-as-an-artist. I think about my own death several times a day. I don’t know how I’m gonna make it so maybe I won’t. Might as well go on anti-depressants if I can’t tell the difference between the doom in my head and bloody ebbing tide of the final century. I’m doing gigs, caregiving on weekends and bartending during the week, and samplings in the supermarkets. All of this destroys me. Even though I spring back, I always find myself in the dark place again. This isn’t a cry for help as much as the need to tell it. The usual channels, and career I made as a writer on the socials, don’t feel as real as they used to. I want so much more than that. Even this blog doesn’t pack the same wallop, lost in feeds of pro-lifers and the horribly vainglorious. But it’s better than not saying it ain’t it and anyway this is to say—it’s bad, Reader, real bad.

I don’t have much more to offer. The Right tried to overthrow the government. My rent’s getting raised. The Honda’s running great if rumbling at 80mph or sometimes just when the AC’s on. Everything is a fucking slog and I’ve no real connection except for hit or miss phone conversations. Everyone on the street seems blind or dumb. Or mean and dumber. I need to get on something and pull myself out of the life of a dayworker. The shifts take more and more out of me and I’m only working to stay in place. There’s the doom approaching and the heavy tread until it gets here. I’m sure my art is suffering and the truth is it’s teetering on the edge with everything else. I didn’t mind firing at will, running a hundred books off, booking a flight and doing readings until I sold out of them. But my short-term thinking has landed me here, and my health and the economy won’t support that lifestyle anymore.

Patrons are still trickling in. Y’all are saving my ass in every way. I had a piece of personal journalism published last week and it’s everything I wanted for my writing. I’m getting paid to write my way, which isn’t factual or topical, per se. It’s the word on the street from Your Guy, running his deal there. If you’ve read this far, thank you. If you’d read this piece, called HIT ‘LIKE’ AND SUBSCRIBE TO YOUR DOOM at Music, Movies&Hoops, you’ll be celebrating with me. It’s a victory and I’ll take it and thank my lucky stars for you. Now back to the bloody fray. I can’t wait to see you on the street motherfucker.

Buy me a bubbly?

Most of my Patrons are contributing as little as $5 a month, and they’re getting letters for it, letter pressed broadsides, live readings and songs. I’m your mutineer, and I need your help.  I’d love your readership, vis-á-vis a a few minutes of your week and for the cost of a fancy beverage.

Patrons keep me writing until I can find someone to pay me for it. Luckily I’ve a piece featured in Music, Movies&Hoops this month. The good news for me is that I’ll live and the good news for you is that as a Patron you’ll have access to street-level reporting, poetry and song.  What could be better?  

Please support me on Patreon.

Your Poet,
Jim Trainer
AUSTIN TX  

THE AGE OF CURATION BLUES

In Uncategorized on May 3, 2022 at 12:43 pm

Out in the fields they were turning the soil,
I’m sitting here hoping this water will boil

—Neil Young

Hello darkness my old friend. Some time ago I made the decision to hang it up here at the Throat. I’m sorry if that confused you and I’m sorry to have lost your weekly readership. I can tell you’re still out there, just scattered. We all are. I stopped posting here because I reached an impasse with my health, and I felt like a hack. The anger, or, thee reason this blog even exists, was doing terrible things to me. The anger hasn’t gone away but it’s been muted. Which one’s worse ain’t it. Feeling like a hack, however, hasn’t changed. I’m fucking pissed at the way this country treats us, and I’m out here working for a living and leaning on my health to do it. Which one’s worse, well, country simple the banes and ills of life are still coming at me, all of us, really. Yet I still feel like a hack.

I got a gig writing for Music, Movies&Hoops at the end of the summer. They ran PART I of a tour journal called TOURING IN A POST-PUNK WORLD. They ran 243 words of mine on Nirvana. I don’t know what happened between then and when I had what I call the Rogan piece published. I can’t explain the lull except to say the blues, motherfucker. The hack feeling, and no weekly release here, running out of money I made on the road. It put me in a bad way, Reader, and I can’t snap out of it. I’m ruminating on the past at the expense of what’s happening in the present. A lot of what I’m calling the hack feeling has to do with the state of the world and clicking into place of what I’ll call institutions of culture. Social media has become a reality. What a horrible sentence. I don’t have to tell you that while we’re “seeing what’s going on” online, we’re prostrate and anyway motionless and transfixed, in a word—distracted. We’re distracted by the world falling away and the terrible turning of this age, and we’re helpless in its thrall. The rally and roar on the socials over the imminent rollback of Roe V. Wade to me is a perfect example of yelling into the void. I’m not saying we shouldn’t and that things won’t change without anger, just that when it comes time to organize, we’ll be on the same networks beholden to corporate interest and well aware of who’s pulling the strings.

I’ve paid enough late fees to Fucking Spectrum to keep the internet on for a year. Internet access is a main gripe of a piece due to appear on MM&H this Thursday. The internet has ingratiated itself into my writing but my cause is just. It’s time for internet access to become a utility. So who should pull the strings? The federal government of course, or therein be regulated somehow, like radio and the telephone—wait a second, Good God. We are so fucked and I’m over the honeymoon phase with our doom. I’m not just scared, I’m blue. Any vindication I felt about how wretched things are and how catastrophic they will become, has been replaced by hopelessness. Of course it’s happening by degree. I don’t notice until I’m broke again and war is waged in Europe. It’s Spectrum on the phone and it’s Verizon and what could be the biggest humanitarian crisis since WWII. The thread is me, in fragile health, working doubles and listening to our leaders speeches. But the through line is internet access. Of course it’s not all about me. I mean, the blog is, and all of us. So here’s your free internet. Your access to me. This isn’t a persona but a reporting on the darkness advancing while in the charms of the writing life. We need each other. The blog has gone fallow and I’m not even sure if it matters. I think about my own death daily and anxiously grind through another 24 hours as a freelancer, destitute of the desk and suffering a silent rage until dusk. I’m relieved in dusk. The most exciting part of my day is going to bed, which we can admit is pretty bad. But much better than before.

Buy me a bubbly?

Most of my Patrons are contributing as little as $5 a month, and they’re getting letters for it, letter pressed broadsides, live readings and songs. I’m your mutineer, and I need your help.  I’d love your readership, vis-á-vis a a few minutes of your week and for the cost of a fancy beverage.

Patrons keep me writing until I can find someone to pay me for it. Luckily I’ve a piece featured in Music, Movies&Hoops this and next month. The good news for me is that I’ll live and the good news for you is that as a Patron you’ll have access to street-level reporting, poetry and song.  What could be better?  

Please support me on Patreon.

Your Poet,
Jim Trainer
AUSTIN TX  

GET YOUR COPY OF STRIDE HERE

INDIANAPOLIS

In Uncategorized on April 26, 2022 at 10:31 am

been a dog! since winter
froze down
and just blind with the blues
“How much of our worries
and trouble,” you posit
“can be shucked just by
getting on a plane?”
your voice through the phone
sounds like a bikini (or what
I imagine a bikini to sound like),
out the window the mockingbird
is yelling at the sun
I lean hard off the pile of
work at the desk
Pack light.” You suggest
and as I hang
on your every pert
Saskatchewanian word,
I only wanna know
“You think two shoes are too much?”

INDIANAPOLIS is my 26th poem of 30 written for every day of National Poetry Month.

Buy me a bubbly?

Most of my Patrons are contributing as little as $5 a month, and they’re getting letters for it, letter pressed broadsides, live readings and songs. I’m your mutineer, and I need your help.  I’d love your readership, vis-á-vis a a few minutes of your week and for the cost of a fancy beverage.

Patrons keep me writing until I can find someone to pay me for it. Luckily I’ve a piece featured in Music, Movies&Hoops this and next month. The good news for me is that I’ll live and the good news for you is that as a Patron you’ll have access to street-level reporting, poetry and song. What could be better?  

Please support me on Patreon.

Your Poet,
Jim Trainer
AUSTIN TX  

GET YOUR COPY OF STRIDE HERE


A TURRET OF SELF

In Uncategorized on April 19, 2022 at 2:31 pm

it’s the calamity of a bad mind
that put me here and
in the writing
a fleeting
peace.  

Buy me a bubbly?

Most of my Patrons are contributing as little as $5 a month, and they’re getting letters for it, letter pressed broadsides, live readings and songs. I’m your mutineer, and I need your help.  I’d love your readership, vis-á-vis a a few minutes of your week for the cost for a fancy beverage.

Patrons keep me writing until I can find someone to pay me for it. Luckily I’ve a piece featured in Music, Movies&Hoops this month. The good news for me is that I’ll live and the good news for you is that as a Patron you’ll have access to street-level reporting, poetry and song.

What could be better? Please support me on Patreon.

Your Poet,
Jim Trainer
AUSTIN TX  

GET YOUR COPY OF STRIDE HERE

THE MARK 

In Uncategorized on April 12, 2022 at 12:59 pm

the heart retches
at the walls of my chest
the plain streets wedge in
with their hard-yellow light

the nights are a closure
and I’m cool in my seclusion
but the lie has ingrown and
to its idea, the body 
is dragged along

you told me that love was just 
peace with the unforgivable
but that was cities ago
and now I try and 
untrain the mark
keep the fool’s toil,
my beat on the long room

I’ve a ruin and I covet it
an annihilation that sure 
as I stand here will
unmoor

all that could’ve been
send it wide and heaving
to tumble in the canyon
its bones thrust up
from the wreck of itself
to roil in the roan-dog sky

THE MARK is my 12th poem of 30 written for National Poetry Month.

The Editor informs me that if f I get 600 views on “See You in Ten, Will” he’ll throw me some cheddar. Help a brother out and read what mainstream culture should mean to us, which is absolutely nothing.

The Honda passed inspection.  Rather than wait for a motor mount they drilled right into the old one.  My bills are paid and I’m broke.  But I’ve got fish in the fridge and a lunch date with the lovely Ms. V on Wednesday.  It’s a good life.  The fear keeps you lean and the work means you’re available for whatever storm or favor the gods have in store for you.

Please support me on Patreon.  What’s coming for the working poor in this country needs to be reported on and you know goddamn well I’m your man.

Your Freelancer,
Jim Trainer
AUSTIN TX  

GET YOUR COPY OF STRIDE HERE

BLACK IRISH BEST

In Uncategorized on April 5, 2022 at 4:46 pm

we think it was a small hammer
or mini-aluminum slugger
and though I’d lost consciousness
and minutes of my life
I woke up standing there
I’ve been through worse
and of course I’ve been through
much better
if it wasn’t for luck I’d have
never made it out of Philly
but if it wasn’t for something else
I might not be standing here
at all.

Buy me a beer?
Most of my Patrons are contributing as little as $5 a month, and they’re getting letters for it, letter pressed broadsides, live readings and songs. I’m your mutineer, and I need your help.
Above all, I’d love your readership, vis-á-vis a a few minutes of your week at less than the cost for a pint.
Patrons keep me writing until I can find someone to pay me for it. Luckily I’ve 2 pieces to be featured in music movies and hoops this month. The good news for me is that I’ll live and the good news for you is that, as a Patron you’ll have access to street-level reporting, poetry and song.
What could be better?
Please support me on Patreon.
Your Poet,
Jim Trainer
AUSTIN TX

I’M YOUR MUTINEER

In Uncategorized on March 28, 2022 at 11:04 am

where among tarweed, tawny
and tough as twine,
turkey vultures beat
and pace like pantalooned shaitan…

JIM TRAINER’S POEM OF THE WEEK

CLICK HERE FOR STRIDE AND JIM TRAINER’S LETTER PRESSED BROADSIDES AND COLLECTIONS OF POETRY

STRIDEREADING&RELEASE

WATCH AND SHARE THESE READINGS TO REDEEM A PROMOTIONAL OFFER ON JIM TRAINER’S LETTER PRESSED BROADSIDES AND COLLECTIONS OF POETRY

TO A DOG I MET IN CALABRIAREADING&RELEASE

32 Patrons keep the lights on and more importantly the internet, as I work as little as possible and devote my time off to personal journalism and poetry.  I’ve crossed the threshold and am actually doing the fucking thing—which is telling it, our way, and making it month to month on oatmeal and the truth.  Most of those 32 patrons are contributing as little as $5 a month, and they’re getting letters for it, letter pressed broadsides, live readings and songs.  They’re giving because they want to and from a sense of duty.  I, in turn, am on duty too, as your witness and your voice and I need your help.
Poet Will Stenberg’s got a great way of asking for help on Patreon but I’m good on coffee.  How about a few minutes of your time and devoted readership?  Patrons kept me stepping with 6-1,200-word weekly missives until I could find ink.  I’ve found it, I’m sunk in, too far gone and anyway now is not the time to turn around. 
Now we go forth, into it and within each other’s arms.  I’m asking for your support.
Your Personal Journalist,
Jim Trainer
AUSTIN TX

These truly heinous and desperate times are inversely proportional to how bright and shiteating the smiling face of Governor Greg Abbott is.  The happier he looks, the worse it probably is.

SUPPORT JIM TRAINER’S PERSONAL JOURNALISM WITH ACCESS TO LIVE READINGS OF POETRY AND SONGS, 2 POEMS A MONTH, LETTERS AND A WEEKLY COLUMN

STIRRING DULL ROOTS

In Uncategorized on March 22, 2022 at 1:08 pm

It’s dark because you are trying too hard. Lightly child, lightly… Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them…throw away your baggage and go forward. There are quicksands all about you…trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair. That’s why you must walk so lightly…on tiptoes and no luggage…completely unencumbered.
—Aldous Huxley

And I woke up in the garden
I woke up in the sun…

—Cory Branan

A hurricane blew through Austin last night but it’s been raining indoors since the Fall. I went out last Wednesday to see Nathan Hamilton. We sat in the sun and talked. About poetry and art and love—the relationship kind. I missed my Austin and missed the most beautiful weather anywhere that is March here. I missed the charge of being in the center of the rock and roll universe that SX, at its best, can be. Sipping beer with Freedy Johnston at the Whip In and getting scorched by Bill Kirchen sitting in with Mike Stinson at the G&S Lounge in 2009. Seeing Cory Branan three times in two days in 2017 with Aimée Mackovic crying beside me the first time we heard The Vow. Mojo Nixon Day at the Continental and seeing the best drummer I’ve ever seen, playing with Chuck Prophet, with Heather from the back of the stage in 2010. Turning on the radio in ’12, fresh out of Yoga School and moving with a new job, to hear The Boss drop gospel on KUTX. Drinking all day at Romeo’s and at the bar with John Swenson in ’11 and talking about Katrina and the promise of rock and roll. It’s a promise that delivers, bet, but me and Nathan enjoyed the simpler pleasures of Austin—outdoor seating in the hot sun and interactions with nice, young ladies who just say Hi to you (Hi, Erin Ivey). 

I’ve missed so much and I know we all have but the blessing and curse of my isolation is that I can always take it or maybe my mind’s made up that I should and just learn how. It’s not lost on me that STRIDE, though intended to be a celebration and pat on the back (if not obvious from its title), and though it does in fact celebrate the fuckall power of Spring and going on, it ended up being a rumination on solitude. The fact that the collection took yet another left turn into the joy of persevering romance, its initial meandering into isolation and what I call “the room” was honored. Country simple I thought we could make it, that we put the time in and had bettered ourselves and could be happy together now, like we always thought we could. I was wrong. In almost every way though the jury’s out on the joy of persevering romance. I mean, the kitchen is closed and I feel like a fucking fool. Also, I’m older now. Though I’ve leveled the stakes and am a poet now, it’s still a struggle. Working for a living and relating to one another.  I’m depleted and regretful and blue which, by the way, is a tradition as strong as any springtime rite in the hometown (hometown of Austin, it should hereby be noted). 

Spring has sprung. As a society we have collectively determined to fuck the old and infirm and immuno-compromised—we are going to get back to living and doing it our way. S’ok but even after just 28 hours working I am wrecked and my apartment, too. Piles of dishes and dirty laundry. Oatmeal and Fuck You Stew in the fridge. A kink on my left hand side that creeps in and all over my neck and arm and shoulder. Manageable colitis and a smoker’s cough. Everything is so fucked up. But I feel lighter now and I’m taking it in stride (see what I did there?). The past is the past and it’s a fucking wasteland back there. Just like old times but I’m stubborn and really have no other recourse than to do what I have always done. My dead are buried. I buried parts of myself with them. My name is Jim Trainer, I’m 47 and I am trying to get those parts back. See you in the sun, motherfucker.


32 Patrons keep the lights on and more importantly the internet, as I work as little as possible and devote my time off to personal journalism and poetry.  I’ve crossed the threshold and am actually doing the fucking thing—which is telling it, our way, and making it month to month on oatmeal and the truth.  Most of those 32 patrons are contributing as little as $5 a month, and they’re getting letters for it, letter pressed broadsides, live readings and songs.  They’re giving because they want to and from a sense of duty.  I, in turn, am on duty too, as your witness and your voice and I need your help.
Poet Will Stenberg’s got a great way of asking for help on Patreon but I’m good on coffee.  How about a few minutes of your time and devoted readership?  Patrons kept me stepping with 6-1,200-word weekly missives until I could find ink.  I’ve found it, I’m sunk in, too far gone and anyway now is not the time to turn around. 
Now we go forth, into it and within each other’s arms.  I’m asking for your support.
Your Personal Journalist,
Jim Trainer
AUSTIN TX

IT’S TOO LATE TO WISH I’D BEEN STRONGER

In Uncategorized on March 14, 2022 at 7:41 am

FIRST WE TAKE HOUSTON, WNBA Player Britney Griner Detained As Russian Troops Move Into Ukraine…ARE YOU READY FOR WWIII, Voting In America…BLOOD ON THE STREETS, Worth Ten Times More Than Gold…THANKS OBAMA, Staying Insured Below The Poverty Line…PERSONAL JOURNALISM, So far, so good, so what?…THE MESSAGE IS THE MEDIUM, For The Crime of Spectator Culture—Apple, Facebook and Internet Providers Will Be First Against The Wall……PUNK’S NOT DEAD IT JUST SUCKS NOW, Hardcore Punk’s Short Drift To The Right…STAYING SICK IN THE FINAL CENTURY, Personal Journalist Documents The Plight of Ulcerative Colitis…

I’m tired of the black magic of hack writing. Tired of myself, in case you can’t tell. Thus far, I’ve made an albeit low-paying career as an autocannibalist. I brought my dirties and was glad to. It gave us a charge and it felt like I was cutting through. And I was, too, but now this 1-br in downtown Austin is full of corpses. I’m the last one standing in here, besieged by regret and useless guilt as the clock on the wall says “Too bad” and I’m dropped (and blocked) by my Yoga teacher without explanation. The editor wants pitches for March but all I’ve got are these columns—600 words of surgery-on-the-self and public psychoanalysis with a cute and bitter sendoff. Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?
ON PATREON THIS THURSDAY

Getting the air inside my lungs
is heavenly

WATCH AND SHARE THESE READINGS TO REDEEM A PROMOTIONAL OFFER ON JIM TRAINER’S LETTER PRESSED BROADSIDES AND COLLECTIONS OF POETRY:
STRIDE
READING&RELEASE
TO A DOG I MET IN CALABRIAREADING&RELEASE
(SPECIAL LINK FOR NON-FACEBOOK VIEWERS HERE AND HERE IF YOU SHARE!)

JIM TRAINER AT MOVIES, MUSIC&HOOPS

JIM TRAINER’S POEM OF THE WEEK

SUPPORT JIM TRAINER’S PERSONAL JOURNALISM WITH ACCESS TO LIVE READINGS OF POETRY AND SONGS, 2 POEMS A MONTH, LETTERS AND A WEEKLY COLUMN

TONIGHT

In Uncategorized on March 9, 2022 at 12:21 pm

Join us for the virtual release of the broadside of Will Stenberg’s
TO A DOG I MET IN CALABRIA
with
Jane-Rebecca Cannarella
Andrew Rihn 
Joe Brundidge
and Will Stenberg
TONIGHT
Wednesday March 9 on FB Premiere
8P.M. EST/7P.M CST/5P.M. PST

THANK YOU FOR JOINING US FOR THE READING AND RELEASE OF STRIDE. YOU CAN WATCH THE PERFORMANCE HERE
FOR LETTER PRESSED COLLECTIONS OF JIM TRAINER’S POETRY AND BROADSIDES BY WILL STENBERG GO HERE
TO SUPPORT JIM TRAINER’S PERSONAL JOURNALISM, AND FOR LIVE READINGS OF POETRY AND SONGS GO HERE