Jim Trainer

Archive for 2022|Yearly archive page

THANK YOU

In Uncategorized on September 27, 2022 at 7:45 pm

…without you my address would be the wind…

STRIDE, JIM TRAINER’S 8TH FULL-LENGTH COLLECTION OF POETRY, NOW AVAILABLE AT JIMTRAINER.NET

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

IN ALL THE WAYS BUT

In Uncategorized on September 20, 2022 at 8:10 am

rake-thin brother getting
burned by the sun
conducting the brute-wildest symphony
you’ve never heard

tomcat cross-eyed and lucky
lower than a dragon in the shade

sweetie on the P.M.
tellin’ em “Y’ALL GET THE FUCK
OUT OF HERE…”
and burning down a Newport
at dawn

radio man in a room
pushing ‘gainst the walls of this city
like a saint

grackle in the court
yelling into the dusk
like he saying
You ain’t blacker’n me!

Night outside my window
with a flatbar and kill kit
sees me pass under
until I get to the room

room it welcomes me
humming like an engine
in a ravine
tells me I’m one away from
nothing
that there ain’t nobody
blue as me.

Please join us this Thursday September 22 as we celebrate the unofficial release of STRIDE, my 8th collection of poetry, with with a reading featuring luminaries of the Austin poetry community. Copies of STRIDE will be available at 40% off with the cost of admission, as well as a limited edition and letterpressed broadside of my poem “RECURRENT” (at 30% off with ticket price). 

This will be an intimate affair at the last confederate governor of the U.S.’ old place, and a 118-year-old historical building and living museum, owned and operated by a yankee.  A VDR of Travis County will be on hand to help you make sure you’re registered to vote this November.

with

Tiffany Dansby
Spencer Mirabal
and 
Joe Brundidge

7-9:30 P.M. CDT
$15 with ticket/$20 at the door.
(Comped admission available for anyone unable to meet the ticket price.  Just write me.)

For tickets:
https://www.eventbrite.com/e/not-a-book-release-tickets-373938027707

Patrons get in for free!

Dear Editor

In Uncategorized on September 13, 2022 at 9:36 am

Dear Editor

I’ve released a collection of poetry, and sometimes prose, every year since 2015.  I’ve existed outside the literary establishment with great success (if you view my career through a punk rock lens, which I do).  This month I’ll be unofficially releasing STRIDE, my 8th.  The release will feature what I call Standup Tragedy™–storytelling, poetry and dark humor.  

It’s an unofficial release because I don’t know what difference poetry can make in these dark times.  But we’ll be doing it at the Dead Confederate—a former home of the last confederate governor of the U.S., and a 118-year old historical building and living museum, owned and operated by a yankee.  We’ll have a VDR of Travis County tabling the event as well.  The show will be an intimate affair, and feature luminaries of the Austin poetry community.

I think this event could be of interest to Chronicle readers, punk rockers, artists and anyone feeling hopeless.  We’ll kick against the doom a little for the sake of art.  What could be better?

Jim Trainer
jimtrainer.net

$15 with ticket/$20 at the door.
For tickets:
https://www.eventbrite.com/e/not-a-book-release-tickets-373938027707

Patrons get in for free!

NOT A BOOK RELEASE

In Uncategorized on September 6, 2022 at 1:06 pm

𝑆𝑇𝑅𝐼𝐷𝐸, 𝐽𝐼𝑀 𝑇𝑅𝐴𝐼𝑁𝐸𝑅’𝑆 8𝑇𝐻 𝐹𝑈𝐿𝐿-𝐿𝐸𝑁𝐺𝑇𝐻 𝐶𝑂𝐿𝐿𝐸𝐶𝑇𝐼𝑂𝑁 𝑂𝐹 𝑃𝑂𝐸𝑇𝑅𝑌, 𝑁𝑂𝑊 𝐴𝑉𝐴𝐼𝐿𝐴𝐵𝐿𝐸 𝐴𝑇 𝐽𝐼𝑀𝑇𝑅𝐴𝐼𝑁𝐸𝑅.𝑁𝐸𝑇

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

𝑜𝑛 𝑆𝑇𝑅𝐼𝐷𝐸

In Uncategorized on August 30, 2022 at 4:45 pm

The past is the past and it’s here to stay…
—Nick Cave

And in the nights the heavy Earth, too, falls 
From out the stars into the Solitude...
—Rainer Maria Rilke

If our separation is illusion Good Subscriber, then our grieving is a dream. I believe that loss is finite perhaps because I have to—in order that I might continue to take the boons and move along the further gift of this life. I’ve been hit with it, the blues, it’s true, but this time, down at the bottom, there was a wisdom and knowing that all that is to come will be so gorgeously liberating, if not terrifying, and I’ll be on my way.

STRIDE ran and I had 42 copies of them in the mail before Christmas Eve. TO A DOG I MET IN CALABRIA was warm off the presses and on its way to 28 of Will Stenberg’s readers just after noon the next day. All is well except the seasonal deluge of blues and hard grief that has mostly been my experience with the holiday. With every collection of poetry I am better and certainly different somehow but the green volume of STRIDE seems to luminesce from some deliberate corner of my psyche. The collection was intended as a celebration, opening however mournfully with PAGAN NEW YEAR, but soon moving into the undeniable ease and reclamation of spring. I hit a wall though, like I do, and STRIDE soon turned into a gritty and often dark song of resolve. 

Heartbreak is a constant state and if we can come to it in the spirit of breaking open then the medicine of loss and solitude and even love become spectral, worth remembering and going through. The lilting romance-for-other that seeps and sinks through the collection is no accident. Your writer met on the short pier of isolation another to look up with at the twinkling, dead light of stars together. And of course soon, too, the room ain’t it. That all expanse of self will one day find itself in a room, its constricted space looming large as law, is the truth of us. We will have to rival our loneliness and that is the true gait of our stride. We should stride and strive toward a wholeness with our pain, contain all who’ve come and are here today so that they who’re coming might have us to urge them on or only sit silently by.

The business of writing is so strange. Not because it’s any different a commerce but because it is the same. You should know that your purchase is an honoring, that each sale affirms this highwire of road, that I’m a writer because you read me and we accept that the pages, collected and literally turning, are a testament to what was; and by letting go we honor the change. We let it change us. The spirit will never die. We’ll go on through our losses and be buoyed by our gain. The business of writing can seem so crass when dealing in transformative matter but my point is that publishing and the creation of a real thing in time and space is the truest magic, real change and everything-we-want-to-be manifest. 

I don’t need to worry when I tell you my latest collection is wedged deep in the crease of my heart. The beat of loneliness and meek brilliance of tiny, incremental victory that is overcoming. The punishing existential reminders and heavy toll of solitude in the collection assert that even in overcoming we’ve had to humble ourselves to our pain, make peace with the zero sum of our dreams of love and still birth forth, hit the city with every bit of good feeling and spite we’ve ever had, greet the long, adversarial night gladly, rosary swords diamond-sharp in the cut, breastplate knotted and doubled back, our hearts beating against the seam, tucking in and bounding up again.
Patreon, 12/27/21

𝑆𝑇𝑅𝐼𝐷𝐸, 𝐽𝐼𝑀 𝑇𝑅𝐴𝐼𝑁𝐸𝑅’𝑆 8𝑇𝐻 𝐹𝑈𝐿𝐿-𝐿𝐸𝑁𝐺𝑇𝐻 𝐶𝑂𝐿𝐿𝐸𝐶𝑇𝐼𝑂𝑁 𝑂𝐹 𝑃𝑂𝐸𝑇𝑅𝑌, 𝑁𝑂𝑊 𝐴𝑉𝐴𝐼𝐿𝐴𝐵𝐿𝐸 𝐴𝑇 𝐽𝐼𝑀𝑇𝑅𝐴𝐼𝑁𝐸𝑅.𝑁𝐸𝑇

Poet, publisher and performer Jim Trainer will not be releasing his 8th collection of poetry, STRIDE (Yellow Lark Press) with a reading featuring luminaries of the Austin spoken word scene. Copies of STRIDE will be available however, along with a limited edition and letterpressed broadside of his poem “RECURRENT.” Trainer will bring his Standup Tragedy™ to Austin at a historic Governor’s mansion and living museum on September 22. 

with
Tiffany Dansby
Spencer Mirabal
and 
Joe Brundidge
7-9:30 P.M. CDT
$15 with ticket/$20 at the door.
For tickets:
https://www.eventbrite.com/e/not-a-book-release-tickets-373938027707

Patrons get in for free!

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE, The Unofficial Release of Jim Trainer’s STRIDE

In Uncategorized on August 23, 2022 at 10:03 am
Jim Trainer, Poet

PRESS RELEASE

Contact: Jim Trainer

Phone: 512-203-6288

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE 

9/22/22

NOT A BOOK RELEASE-AN EVENING OF POETRY AND THE SPOKEN WORD WITH JIM TRAINER-ON SEPTEMBER 22 AT THE DEAD CONFEDERATE

Poet, publisher and performer Jim Trainer will not be releasing his 8th collection of poetry, STRIDE (Yellow Lark Press) with a reading featuring luminaries of the Austin spoken word community.  Copies of STRIDE will be available however, along with a limited edition and letterpressed broadside of his poem “RECURRENT” (shared below).  Trainer will bring his Standup Tragedy™ to Austin at a historic Governor’s mansion on September 22.  But it’s not a book release.

“Fuck it.”  Trainer says, instead of putting on the perfect send up for his latest collection.
“Me and my friends are gonna tell it, in an old Confederate mansion that’s been taken over by a yankee.”  The informal gathering will take place at Confederate Governor Joe Sayers old place—a 118-year-old building converted into a living museum in downtown Austin.   

Trainer will be joined by poet preacher Joe Brundidge (Lit City), culture commentator Spencer Mirabal (Murder We Watched) and matron mama Tiffany Dansby (A Poet We Know) for a show consisting of poetry, storytelling and dark humor.

“It’s not about the ha-has,” Trainer says of his Stand Up Tragedy “but sometimes all you can do is laugh.”  As a personal journalist at Going For the Throat and Into The Void magazine Trainer has spent over a decade chronicling the inner life of a creative, and documenting the travails of a shift worker and “romantic nihilist” trying to “stay in walls” and continue writing in peace.  His storytelling is a “least factual, most accurate” account of an artist trying to make it in the end of times. 

He’s released collections of his street poetry every year since 2015 through Yellow Lark Press.  His matter of fact delivery sounds unrehearsed with turns of phrase and tips of the hat to plain-spoken poets Philip Levine, Charles Bukowski and Billy Collins. 

Join Jim Trainer in not celebrating the release of STRIDE, his 8th collection of poetry, at The Dead Confederate on September 22 at 7P.M. CST.

For tickets:
https://www.eventbrite.com/e/not-a-book-release-tickets-373938027707

For more information:
Jim Trainer
512-203-6288
jamesmichaeltrainer@gmail.com

#

Word Count = 325

Jim Trainer is a poet, publisher, writer and performer.  He has blogged weekly at Going For the Throat for over a decade, penned a monthly column at Into The Void and contributes to Music, Movies&Hoops.  As a proponent of personal journalism Trainer reports on the inner life while writing about recovery, mental health and the creative process.  Trainer publishes one collection of poetry, and sometimes prose, every year through Yellow Lark PressSTRIDE is his 8th.  Trainer is the progenitor of Stand Up Tragedy™ and performs regularly throughout the world.

Joe Brundidge is an author, host, teaching artist and public speaker living in Austin, Texas. He has hosted a number of open mic events for almost 20 years, including Spoken & Heard at Kick Butt Coffee, an event he curated from 2007-2017. He also served as the Director of the Austin International Poetry Festival from 2012-2015, and was a co-host of “Writing On The Air” Wednesdays from 6p-7p on KOOP 91.7fm. His most recent book ELEMENT 615 was published by Lit City Press in 2017.

Spencer Mirabal is a poet and podcaster based in Austin, TX. You can read his poems in SWEET SAD SANDAL BOY,  his debut chapbook published by Lit City Press, and NOT NICE + NECESSARY BEEF POEMS, his digital-only, Instagram-exclusive chapbook. You can listen to him as co-host of the comedy podcast MURDER, WE WATCHED on Spotify.

Tiffany Dansby published  her first book of poetry, SOUL • FED • EROTICA, in August 2021 by hand, making two hundred copies at her family’s kitchen table.  She’s the sole owner and author of her publishing shop, A POET WE KNOW, and performs with Red Light Lit.  

Jim Trainer
512-203-6288
jamesmichaeltrainer@gmail.com

PHOTOS
-attached
WRITING SAMPLE
-pasted below 

RECURRENT, a poem

bring your pain
soak it like rags
in kerosene
stand blade-thin 
like a rudder in the laughing wind 
whisper to the dead
stay buried or come along
drive along a speeding train
listening to Talking New York Blues 
and smoking
run like a lost dog
through the wilds of your solitude
don’t do anything except acknowledge
a memory
keep 4 cards
1 face down
in your left pants pocket
at the party
don’t scowl
especially if she’s there
don’t drink or say too much
and get to bed before midnight
wake at dawn
drink strong coffee and cold water
feel regret
and loathing
and anger 
breathe through it
get up
face the sad sun like a God.

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

JIM TRAINER AT MOVIES, MUSIC&HOOPS

GET YOUR COPY OF STRIDE HERE

SUBSCRIBE TO JIM TRAINER’S POEM OF THE WEEK

ME & BROTHER X

In Uncategorized on June 7, 2022 at 9:21 am

Meet up in Yoga. Go for juice after.
“That class was…somethin.”

Buys me a Paradise Found. It’s got pineapple, banana, mango, guayusa, blue majik (whatever that is), ginger and lime. It’s benefits listed are “energy, immunity, superfoods, anti-inflammatory.” It’s bright green and I drink it fast, in heaving gulps.

I tell him I want to die. That lying there in class I was thinking about pills, an opioid overdose. Seems like the easiest way to go but some people say if you want it easy then you don’t want to die. He can relate. He’s been there and probably will be again.

I tell him how isolated I am. That even at the studio, I’m misunderstood. Conversations are flip, full of “newage” and non-committal cliché. Brother X tells me that Austin is gone. I don’t disagree.
“Used to be you could go to Yoga every day of the week. Great classes and wall-to-wall. Mat to mat. Things were fucked up then, too, but I’d go back in a heartbeat.”
He goes on.

“Financial security is a huge concern for people our age.” Brother X is right. He goes on, telling me I need to get my living situation sorted. That there are all kinds of people all over the world just looking for someone to occupy their property. Keep an eye on things. Cut the grass. He asks me if I’ve ever been to Hawaii.

I told him I was there for a job offer in the fall but it didn’t pan out due to personal differences. That I wish I tried harder, or addressed them at all. Instead I just hit the road. Did 5 cities on a spoken-word tour, and fucked off the Fall. Ran out of unemployment and fell into the sunken place. I haven’t been able to shake it since.

“It gets better,” he assures me.
I reach out for his hand and he swats it away. Pulls me in for a hug.
“Tomorrow? 1:30.”
“Ok, Brother X. See you then.”

I feel clear and understood. Seen. I sleep well. The yoga worked. I wake up the next day and go to work. By the afternoon I’m back to thinking about ways to die. When I’m off shift, I lay down with the boy cat and he scratches the shit out of me. I put on my yoga blacks and go to class.

Thanks to Good Patrons I am back on the road.  I’m writing for them, praise be, because the socials are phony and they depress me.  Join a growing readership and for only $5 a month you’ll help me stay viable, independent of corporate interest and free from “look at me” loons. 

For access to a weekly column, two poems a month, letter pressed broadsides, live readings and songs—please support me on Patreon.

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

JIM TRAINER AT MOVIES, MUSIC&HOOPS

GET YOUR COPY OF STRIDE HERE

SUBSCRIBE TO JIM TRAINER’S POEM OF THE WEEK

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.

GET YOUR COPY OF STRIDE HERE

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  

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