Jim Trainer

Archive for the ‘D.C. Bloom’ Category

Poinsettias on St.Patrick’s

In D.C. Bloom on April 9, 2014 at 2:22 pm

like poinsettias
on St. Patrick’s
like two lips
that never kiss
like an aimless, blameless
watered down
but tossed adrift
like an uncashed check
and left behind
in the wake
of ill repute
and roots
of toot
like diagrammed
dance steps
graceless, yet cunning
and coming
together on a broken
swaying, saying and swearing
have always been
will always be
but might never see
or cross that t
and yet agree
that what could be
will never be

by D.C. Bloom



Cold Pecan

In D.C. Bloom on April 8, 2014 at 1:49 pm

It was a passionless peck
that Judas Kiss
a cold embrace
a hand on face
& eyes that met
but never meant
than duty called
& decorum allowed
It was a message mixed
that set the wheels
that waxed the seal
& hardly mattered
in tatters of hearts
& minds
over matter
that universe stuff
& mounted on a wall
It was a playbook call
the GOOD end RUN
that went much longer
& felt much stronger
& hurt no one
a game not won
or lost
nor tried
but true to word
& deed of TRUST DENIED
It was meant to be
but never was
a dangersome dalliance
a busted alliance
a broken record
that left no trace
or track
in sands
of time that STILL MOVES ON
but has nowhere
to go

by D.C. Bloom


Irregular Beats of the Heart

In D.C. Bloom on April 7, 2014 at 4:48 pm

“I know you still have a heart in there,” she coldheartedly observed.
A heart?
A heart?
Where do I start?
Yes, I have a heart.
It’s there. But …
It’s turned to stone.
It’s petrified.
Its beats are irregular
Wait for it … Irregular
Quite often these days.
It lays
It lies
Irregular beats
In drunken waltz time
Wait for it … time.
How much more does it have?
How many more irregular beats?
How many more coldhearted observations must it bear? How?
It go on?
When one so dear, when one so near?
… questions
Its very existence?

by D.C.Bloom


Shrieks of Paradise, Correspondence&Rails#5: Dear D.C.

In christianity, Correspondence, D.C. Bloom, heavy metal, Letter Writing, school on September 10, 2012 at 12:16 pm

The Office of Jim Trainer
Fox Den
Hippie Town, USA

D.C. Bloom
Ghetto Apartment
Road to Recovery, TX



You’re gonna burn in hell!
You know how many times I’ve heard that, D.C.? Enough times to doubt its veracity and especially after all these years.
For true.
The first time I heard it was when we lived in Friendswood, TX and my mom converted us to Baptist. I don’t have many memories from my childhood in Texas, but I distinctly remember a sweaty old man standing by a giant, creepy bathtub in some derelict building outside Houston. I was already baptized as a Catholic, was there really a need for me to go underwater with this coke-bottle wearing pervert with a weird grin? I didn’t think so. Aho, and even at 5 years of age, I knew how to Fuck-The-Bullshit and get to the free hot dogs&taters even if I was going to burn in hell.

The next time I heard it was in seventh (7th) grade. The middle school I was attending (or “the Building”, as I referred to it then) had implemented a “NO HEAVY METAL TEE-SHIRT” policy. They gathered us all in the school auditorium to make it official. I was wearing my ROOT OF ALL EVIL Slayer tee and sitting w/my friends in the third row. DAMAGE, INC. and Randy Rhodes/Ozzy Osbourne Tribute tees and etc. The long&short of it is, they made us turn our tee-shirts inside out that day, D.C. We could wear whatever we wanted to school (it was America after all) but when we got there we’d be greeted by Mr.Washinski, the woodshop teacher (sociopath), and he would make us turn our tee-shirts inside out. We could refuse, but we would be suspended and we were probably going to burn in hell for our taste in music and choice of apparel anyway.
What happened next is predictable&funny, if you like cheap thrills and are somehow, after all these years of abuse, still interested in history . What happened is-they started playing heavy metal on the radio.
Now, today, even cops have tattoos and they’re probably bumpin’ Hatebreed when they pull you over off Kinney Street during SX. Or, they’re listening to Marilyn Manson as they blast the “sand-niggers” back to their Jesus Christ holes over in the middle east. For true. I don’t need to tell YOU. We are warriors and we know. If we don’t, we’re wise enough to Walk On, with our heads down, and make it back to our little corner of nowhere for a stiff drink and a perverted session w/some poor woman’s Facebook photos.

My point?
The reason You’re gonna’ burn in hell rang so empty back then is b/c warriors like you&I know, D.C. We know there is a hell and that hell is a place. And that place is right here&now, motherfucker. What else? Suffering these jackboots in line in front of us at the Whole Foods Industrial Complex or out front Wal-Mart stabbing the sky with misspelled signs against: condoms&Facebook&rap music&whatever else they can’t understand which is pretty much anything that’s not on t.v. or in the news.
Who cares, D.C.? Not me, that’s for true. I’m living in the last Confederate Governor’s old place, down Judge’s Hill, off west 6th. I was born on March 6, the day of the Beauty Lovers. I don’t trust anyone (let alone my own mother for that whole Baptist debacle) but I fall in love with everyone I meet.

I’ve really gone off the rails with this one. Letting you know I’m the most hopeless romantic this side of Dylan Thomas wasn’t the point of this missive. It wasn’t my point at all. My point is, we will live to see stranger things than our own mortality, D.C. For true.
Cannibals&millionaires&sex addicts&Californians-it all comes home to roost.

Take the X-shaped chocolate laced w/ psilocybin that sat in my freezer until last night, for example. Its enabled me to out-weird the frat boys camped out&pissing in the bushes behind Fox Den this morning. Its made me strong&triumphant and even with no wine left or a coherent picture on the screen of this old black&white, I am content.
Contentment is key, D.C. Contentment is the difference between singing high lonesome songs into the Night and simply writing a letter to a friend by the light of an old black&white t.v. with a candle of San Miguel softly burning in the ruined rooms of the High Life.

Saint Michael the Archangel,
defend us in battle;
be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.
May God rebuke him, we humbly pray:
and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host,
by the power of God,
thrust into hell Satan and all the evil spirits
who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls.

Jim Trainer
Austin, TX