Jim Trainer

Archive for the ‘Love’ Category

like a moth in the rain



In loss, Love, mourning, poem, Poetry on December 7, 2017 at 5:19 am

guess it’s only fair, in Fall
I’ll take to gumshoeing through
the puter fog
I’ll mark a year in amber
I’ll still beat the streets
of San Francisco, searching
what of her wide, red bed
and the laughter spilling out
Mission windows in the paling
Fall sun?
and of all the things
I
put away, marked in spite
and striated
in anger and blue woe?

the key will always fit the door
a fun time mirror
will always distend the heart
into a grotesque growth and shape
simply-
you’ll always be what I don’t want
but available

20 planes they leave the runway every day



there’s always a wide swinging door to a cage
my poetry’s become jagged
jangling and dislocate
and this one will be 
no exception
September’s always black&bad
too many cigarettes and
sorry old armor
my smile is full of pain
beneath the streetlights
waiting
for her Boxter, my fling-
we’ll ride on down below
the poverty line
open the bar and sit in the cool dark
spiking Topo Chico with cheap bourbon
unconvincing laughter in the afternoon
is getting over you.
(c)2014

DRAG ME AWAY

In Love, Performance, Spoken Word on November 16, 2017 at 2:26 pm

 

Recorded live at Brewerytown Beats in Philadelphia on October 25, 2017.  Bevan McShea and Charlie O’Hay were also featured.

Burning Down The House

In anger, Being A Writer, blogging, Buddhism, buddhist, Love, mental health, self-help, straight edge, Writing, writing about writing, WRITING PROCESS on May 4, 2017 at 11:51 am

“Dating is a game,” the cunt was saying.  “You’ve got to play.”
She took the cigarette out of my hand and sucked on it the bitch.
“So how do you win?  And who are the losers?  Where are they tonight?  Who are they with?”

She, as you can tell, was thee absolute fucking worst.  Last I saw, she traded in her minivan for an Acura, got back with her baby daddy and continues to walk around like her shit don’t stink.  Also, she’s been one of the biggest motivators for me to quit drinking and get my shit together.  I was in love with her, or getting close, but I guess I lost the game of dating.  I really don’t mind losing but ultimately I’d rather not play-especially if winning means kissing the ass of a phony cunt who sells medical supplies for a living.

We’ve all got our row to hoe.  It betrays my Buddhist leanings to hate anyone, let alone this much and for this long.  It’s been a long time that I should be far from here.  I’m kicking in my stall, digging up corpses from the past for another round of abuse.  The only reconciliation I can come up with between hating her and having compassion for all things is that after all this time maybe I shouldn’t be thinking about her, let alone rueing how awful she is.  My hatred is distracting me, desire is the root of all suffering, but she is still thee absolute fucking worst.

I’ve met many lovely ladies over the last 5 years living here, and most of them were the same:  self serving and narcissistic, coupled with a diabolical need for constant validation.  I should’ve known better than to try and love any of those broken birds.  The Buddhist angle on it is loving them would be hating me.  Ultimately hating them would also be hating me but not so fast, Mr. Bond, and don’t too wise.  Forgiveness of that scope may have to wait for the next leap of evolution-and hatred will have to end here, with me, the last Trainer.

The truth is I don’t mind burning bridges as much as I don’t mind losing the game of dating.  My only regret about burning the bridge is I can’t ever go back and burn it all down.  That doesn’t sound very Buddhist, does it?  I’m a writer, not an arsonist-but if I can’t come up with at least 600 words every week then I might as well set myself on fire.

I’m nothing if not a hard worker but my inspirations are hardly pure.  Another week has come and gone.  I’ve managed to dodge the bullet and stay the avalanche of self hatred that’s always waiting should I fail this quest and not live up to who I chose to be.  Self hatred is fine fuel, it’s worked for me, though it used to be hatred for:  him and her, my Mother and Father and them and that town.  Now it’s only me and this mountain, 600 words high.  Some weeks I ride the tiger, the words come pouring out and the world, having written, is a better place.  Others I overly personalize, I take you into the inner chamber or I dig up corpses of former adversaries and hang ’em from the poles while we ride silently together down the charred avenues of memory lane.  This post is obviously one of those.  We both know I can do better.

She’s still thee absolute fucking worst.
Ab irato,
Trainer

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.

 

The Winner

In austin music scene, Jim Trainer, Love, music performance, Performance, singer-songwriter, song, songwriting on February 1, 2016 at 12:36 pm

When my Nissan died
on the corner of 49th
the morning we split
I slept in it
I had my nose
re set
in my good friend Butch’s kitchen

I always hated that car
now it sits in the very same spot
when we broke up I really hit the jackpot

She’s the queen
of the parlour scene
up in Philly
down to New Orleans
she likes to tell
everyone
what a cold hearted bastard I’ve become

she had very insightful, poignant things
to say that I forgot
when we broke up I really hit the jackpot

‘cause a lie is a lie
and a cheat is a cheat
there was too many heads
rollin’ round in our bed
and too many hands
around my neck
and the streets are filled with the dead

her millionaire dad
probably bent out of shape
when he looks back
to her Ivy League days
but her wedding
it was on T.V.
all that night and the next day

she’ll probably run around that way
until she gets caught
when we broke up I really hit the jackpot

My good friend
he lives downtown
if I get blue
Butchie’ll come around
We’ll watch the news
through our teeth
and we’ll stare at the tube in disbelief

27 rooms, a couple thousand-acre plot
looks like when we broke up she really hit the jackpot

Christmas time
in Guerneville town
her father’s face
her torn gown
I wasted him
I hit him so hard
they had to carry him out to his car

I wasted 7 years of my life
when I gave that quarterback a shot
shoulda said “Look buddy, you really hit the jackpot.”

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

Kingdom Found

In Being A Poet, Being A Writer, Being An Artist, Buddhism, buddhist, Charles Bukowski, day job, depression, employment, Love, magic, mental health, mid life, Poetry, punk rock, solitude, the muse, TYPEWRITERS, working class, Writing, writing about writing, WRITING PROCESS on August 17, 2012 at 12:01 am

Henry Charles Bukowski humanized poetry.  The stoicism of his anti-heroes perhaps betrayed a respect by many writers of the 20th Century for Ernest Hemingway.  They called Hemingway Papa.  Hemingway is not my Papa.  In plain-spoken, dispassionate prose, Bukowski included the sometimes gross and hairy minutiae of life to arrive at a greater truth.  He was not resigned to this-sometimes there is no greater truth.  Some nights there is no peace.My Papa helped me through many war-like years and he still helps me, when I must ruefully look back on those years and try and find some peace with it all.  Giving up is easy, the fight is painful.  Losing the game is painful, until you find your own game and are eternally Victorious.He wanted to “frame the agony” and get in touch with magic, the miracle. He had more to say at the street level because that’s where he lived and spent most of his time.  What is so important culturally about Bukowski is that, for all intents and purposes, he was part of the Beat Generation. The difference is he had to hold a job throughout America’s boom&twilight.  He had no aunt with a house in New Jersey where he could sober up and dream of America.  He watched the new school from out in the yard with all the other hopeless scabs.  He watched them come and go and he outlived them all.  Life went on for Papa.  It always did.  He had to contend with elements unleashed after the dark curtain of a right-wing backlash fell in the 80s. And for all intents and purposes, we are only living in the post-80s.
He found courage, acceptance, defeat and ultimate glory in the mastering of his own game.
The poetry coming from Papa during the August years of his life in San Pedro is some of the most indelible ever written.  It smacks of one of his heroes, Li Po, with its all-inclusive sentimentality and the beautiful realities uncovered once grand notions of entitlement&romance are stripped&thrown away.
It coudn’t be taken away from him in his early years either, even if he didn’t know it, while under the spell of his “assault”; bad cases of the blues he wrote about so unflinchingly.  Underneath all his armor was something his father couldn’t take away with a razor strop. So that, years later, when looking back at a  “decade of 12 hour nights”, he was suddenly touched by magic and left the job for good.
I’ll give Hemingway cred for the emotional subtext of Bukowski’s man’s man, but as it turns out, his writing owes allot more to Raymond Chandler.  It’s fitting that his last novel was a detective one, and his protagonist hired to find Lady Death.
Papa had some luck.  But luck won’t help the truly bitter and the ungrateful.  Luck didn’t help him continually submit work to the literary journals and magazines while he was:  unemployed, shitfully employed and homeless (although he was perhaps his most creative while sitting on a bar stool in Philadelphia for 10 years, but, weren’t we all?)
Many lived like Papa but did not become a celebrated writer/poet/movie writer.  Many just died in madness with their women or in a gutter all alone.Throughout his literary output and life, Papa knew what those eastern mystics&Taoists were saying.  He moved about a destitute metropolis of 80s America, admiring cats and simple distractions like the race track&the mockingbird.  But through it all he knew succinctly what another great Taoist writer, Lao Tsu, knew:little fears eat away at man’s peace of heart. Great fears swallow him whole.
Make your best peace with things, a deal, because the game is rigged.  The real action, the best game, is inside.  Be alive with the gamble, be touched by magic but don’t get so wrapped up in trying to beat the game.  Be like Papa and lose everything.  Lose it all, you don’t need it.  It’s a rigged game and a burden.  When you put down the burden of who even YOU think you’re supposed to be, you can just be who you are.
Thanks for the courage, Papa.