Jim Trainer

Archive for the ‘Broken Heart’ Category

Shooting My Wad

In Being A Writer, blogging, Broken Heart, day job, Jim Trainer, loss, Love, mental health, true love, Writing, writing about writing, WRITING PROCESS on October 15, 2016 at 3:23 pm

People are weird and life is strange.  Any veteran lover will either tell you it was worth it, or be so punchdrunk and jaded that love’s gone septic in their blood, and there’s no chance left at them ever falling in love again.  You see the latter in the bars, destitute and venomous out on the street, long gone but only rivaled by the former, the lucky in love, who see everything through a haze of gold dust and every person as a chance to get lost with nothing but time to lose.  The world is full of lovers and the lovelorn, each rattled and insane, one drunk on faith and the other just drunk.  There are exceptions.  Like me.  I’ve been so lucky in love I could live the rest of my life a hermit and it would be ok.  I’ve had plenty of sex, although, can you ever have enough?  The point is I am both lucky and bitter enough to stop the merry-go-round, get off and go home.  Or, go home and get off, as it were.

Truth has got to be the worst drug.  There’s no come down but it doesn’t get you high either.  It tastes right but it doesn’t taste good.  The truth will never be as tantalizing and exotic as The Lie.  Love can be like this, and many will use lies to get it.  Procuring a partner is best done with drinks and perfume-with the jagged edges smoothed out and under the cloak of darkness, where you can’t see death in her eyes or the bitter lines that hold up his bright smile like a dollar sign.

Most people lie to get love because they feel unworthy.  They’ve got to trump themselves up, be sure to impress upon you that they’ve got it together.  There’s no carnage back there, at least no bodies piled in the dank crawlspaces of their heart.  So much for Generalizations.  There are, as mentioned, exceptions, and for the sake of this blog and all that it stands for, the people I am telling you about-who audition for love, who jump through hoops to appear sane and together and healthy and not bitter, no, never bitter-those people are me.  I’m them.  Yep.  I’ve been auditioning for women since I was 15.  Before that was innocence, and another story, a heartbreaking one and a joyous one, but certainly one that is over and long gone.

It’s me, Brother, Sister.  I am the one who is most dutifully trying to convince you that I’m normal.  I don’t think too deeply, don’t think too much at all.  That I have a career but it isn’t the string of deadend blue-collar labor that’s filled my resume for the last 25 years.  That I believe in this country and have strong views on who should win the next Presidency and I don’t think cops should be dragged into the street and tried on their knees in places like Detroit and Baton Rouge and Michigan.  That I have a good feeling about where things are headed, and that although my Brothers and Sisters are misguided they at least have their own best interest in mind.  Yep that’s me.  And I’ve had you fooled ain’t I?  And I’ve had more than a little luck at it.

Maybe Pilgrim but I’ve paid.  In ways that aren’t kind.  I’ve suffered heartbreak-the real kind and I’m back to tell the tale-splayed open and ready for the next blue-eyed jazz singer to come in and light up my heart like a cathedral.  Heartbreak I never mind.  On principle.  It’s napalm in the trenches when it’s going down, and I’ve kept State Express tobacco in business for many heartbroke years, but it meant that I was alive.  I took the chance on somebody.  Even though in most cases there was every indication I should not love this person-I have.  Many have not come back to tell the tale.  And some will be friends in my heart and out in the green world forever.  You know who you are.  There’s a fair share of poetry about you, and the other kind.  The other kind who I’ve had to bury in words, those I’ve had to eviscerate and crucify, dig up and kill again.  You were the ones who wasted my time.  The clever trick was to make me think it was me who wasn’t worthy.  Me who was crazy.  Me who you wouldn’t mind if I’d just forget:
You’re never doing anything wrong when you’re telling the truth.
-Bill Ackerman, Supporting Characters

Now I have no sympathy.  My blood has dried to clay in my veins.  I used to never mind that you were broken.  ‘Cause I knew that I was too.  Now I don’t have much time left, no space for bullshit and candy ass prima donnas who think the sun rises out their ass.  The only thing I have is an address.  Our conversation will now be reduced to this.  You asking.  Me telling.  Us being together.  Otherwise I’ma sit here and do my thing.

Just kidding.

I’ll be putting some time in.  Really working on myself.  Tightening up the wardrobe and getting my facial scrub on point.  Shining my shoes and whitening my teeth.  I’ll be working overtime to have the money to treat you to nice things.  The struggle and crises of my past will be just that.  You’re on Easy Street now, honey, ’cause here I come-your tall dark and successful man, a strong silent winner who never uses the word bitch and doesn’t care if you lie.

Just kidding.

I’ll be on Facebook, posting articles about Trump and asking people what they think about Trump so I can tell them what I think about Trump and I won’t rest or shut up until November 8 when Hillary takes it like she should, and fulfills the Clinton family’s destiny to bring dynasty rule to the Land of the Free, one the Bushes could’ve had but who will laugh with anyway at a private party behind the rose garden, put on by Wall Street with security provided by the Fraternal Order of Police…and I’ll be in the kitchen or behind the bar, shuckin’ and jivin’ in my serving blacks like the American jackoff I’ve become since I dropped out of music school to be more “real” and mistakenly think I could fight my heroes’ battles and take a long-suffering road I didn’t have to take, just to prove myself to an old man who didn’t care and a woman who doesn’t know how to.

Just kidding.

Down here at the Office we think it best I stick to posting at least 600 words a week, along with a letter to the fans, to keep these demons at bay and avoid spewing 1,134 vituperative words in a caustic spray at random degree…and that’s how it goes.  You either hang yourself or hang it on the wall.

See you on Thursdays motherfucker.

 

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“My comrades in arms, I bid you farewell.”

In Broken Heart, cd review, journalism, Music, music journalism, Philadelphia, singer-songwriter on July 12, 2016 at 3:27 pm

Honored to have some parting words featured, for what could be Psalmships’ last release, at psalmships.com.  Psalmships is songwriter Josh Britton, often solitary and sometimes accompanied by a cadre of low lonesome instrumentalists, moaners and crooners-including: Mike SloMo Brenner, guitarist and singers Brad Hinton, David Janes and Mike Batchelor,  bassist Phil D’Agostino, drummer Daniel Harvie,  Emily Shick Bolles, Kevin Killen and the haunting howls of Liz Fullerton and Chelsea Sue Allen.

Self credited ghost folk, Psalmships’ catalog is a sprawling song of longing and heartache.  Picking up where The Sweetheart Parade left off in 2009, Britton fell deeper and deeper, through valleys and heather, tracking beast and bird through the frontier, and came through with an empty Cathedral Blues, the soundtrack of freezing in the summer and burning throughout the winter.

“Obvious+Unafraid” is Psalmships 8th self-released work and eleventh overall.  These are the lights phantoming on the fringe, ever receeding and coldly burning, the limits that break our hearts open so that we may be vast and only.

Order “Obvious+Unafraid” here,  and pay for it what you will.

 

27/30

In Broken Heart, Jim Trainer, National Poetry Month, poem, Poetry, THIRTY FOR THIRTY CHALLENGE on April 27, 2015 at 7:33 pm

every day worn out with the wrong reason
for this
every attempt to save it somehow, vetted
for this
I sit by the window drinking coffee
and it’s easy
I buy roses from Billy on the corner
and it’s good
walking into the setting sun
pretending I can feel it rise in Hong Kong
feeling you out there, somewhere
behind me
walking the kind streets of my new city
alone

15/30

In Broken Heart, Jim Trainer, National Poetry Month, poem, Poetry on April 15, 2015 at 3:25 pm

I was slogging through the wet months
salty, cashed, despondent, blue
I wore out all my friends
probably took years off my life
smoking&drinking
I really regretted not believing in God
it was a hard, hard time
getting over her
I’m not even sure it was her I was getting over
but that maybe I had some catching up to do
I’d been loving on the run for over a decade
when I met her
I was a player, a night mover, a Don Juan
when she broke it off with me
it was like a an avalanche of faces
a parade of attrition
I had to say goodbye, really say goodbye
to all the women I laid with
took
conquered
I had to look back at the years
&ruefully account for all those
young&open hearts
all the love I threw away and wasted
when I thought I was a man.

Xmas in Texas

In Broken Heart, Jim Trainer on December 29, 2013 at 6:43 pm

 

Papa

In alcoholism, beat writer, Being A Poet, Being A Writer, Being An Artist, blues, Boredom, Broken Heart, Buddhism, buddhist, Charles Bukowski, day job, depression, employment, Love, magic, mental health, mid life, poem, Poetry, punk rock, solitude, suicide, the muse, TYPEWRITERS, Writing, writing about writing, WRITING PROCESS on August 16, 2013 at 10:09 am

I first read him in a bookstore when I was 19.
Reading him was like being given a key,
it was before I became acquainted
with the shrinking room
before such wrong&wicked love-
the kind that leaves powder marks
the kind that betrays
streets who’d curl up beneath me-
it was before that part of town
and before I developed such dire fondness
for brown mash,
before the strangling roots of comfort
before the burgeoning bitterness
and bouts with homelessness
it was the beginning of a couple
decades on the dayshift
falling in and out of love.
at that young age I felt so misunderstood
I ached for something,
anything
to break me out&he showed me how
as I stood in the aisles
I knew this man was giving me something
he was showing me how to burn
before my hell had even began.

papas grave