Jim Trainer

Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category


In Philadelphia, poem, Poetry, Uncategorized on October 19, 2017 at 10:50 am

to live and die is human
it’s our lot and fate
in Philly both these things
can happen in a day
I want to push up against someone
and have them shove me right back
I want to feel them standing down and parting
and cursing me at my back
I want to yell out on every corner ayo!
be pulled along to the brink
shrouded by street sages smoking on stoops
beneath centuries of trees
I want to remember why, what I’m cut from
what I’d resort to in a pinch
I want to push back walking
bleeding blue into cement
I want to shake hands with Bobby Lemons
the old Mayor of 10th Street
sip at the Last Drop, 12th&Pine
remembering street poetry and sweat
for years I spoke into mop handles
above an Ethiopian bar
for years I tumbled roaring
rolling rye bottles out of cars
there’s a woman for every season there
a reason every time it broke
you take the tender part and tie it
‘round your neck in a shimmy, yoked
Philly’s the perfect place to lose, get lucky
or walk sideways for a decade
it’s my Irish Italian parents
a perfect foil an utter bane
you figure it out or you get fucked there
or you get fucked when you do
Hostile City might help you win a little
but will laugh at you when you lose
someone’s car alarm is always going off
people are rude and mean
the cops won’t help you, someone will rob you
your reflexes are always sharp and lean
some of my favorite people in the world live there
best friends, loves, family
shame it took some and buried ‘em
but, too, it seems
Hostile City has a way
to rid you of all your enemies.




In Uncategorized on October 12, 2017 at 7:50 pm

You can’t live without a mother. Without a mother you can’t die.
Narcissus and Goldmund, Herman Hesse

Don’t let your reptile brain override what you knew was right then and is certainly right for you now.  Don’t go on a world tour of pain rehashing things that you’ve passed on or take another stab at things that’ve long since passed you by.  Shitty people are shitty.  The sea changes people say they’ve been through, that’ve brought them back from the dead and into your life are just another charade and they’re never doing it for you, so don’t get enmeshed.  Move on.  Always forward.  Never back.  This paragraph will be one fuck of a non-sequitir if it doesn’t tie in with anything except its cribbed title from an article about Joe Biden.  Truth is I don’t know what to write about this week, I don’t know where I am, except in a state of free fall, and I’m grasping–at love and the past and ideas of things that didn’t bring me comfort before but I insist will now, somehow.  It could be high time for some real deal spirituality.  I’ve skirted it long enough.  It could also be a great time to forego ideas of love and romance and let go the need to be taken care of.  How much more could I need anyway?  I’m on the love seat I bought yesterday, in my bedroom of the new apartment.  I just ate a reheated Mixmix from last night’s dinner at Koriente.  My car is parked in the driveway and it’s peaceful here, a little stuffy but fine in the fading light. No one’s going to blast in here and stick a gun in my face.  These walls won’t fall tonight and I’ll enjoy my first night of sound sleep in over fourteen days on a brand new mattress, delivered this afternoon.  The world is on fire and the end days are winding down–but everything is ok.

I bring up love and romance because I’m a romantic.  And I met a woman who we’ll call Kali, and she smacked me down to size when she told me that what I needed was what I had.  I’ve been unemployed since October 1 and as mentioned I’ve been falling through the days.  Lucky there have been some truly profound moments in the sun down here, too–days the old, street fighting me would hardly believe.  It occurs to me that other than knowing we’re on the brink and it’s all over baby blue, the torrential malaise of my psyche these days might have something to do with survivor’s guilt.  I made it through, it’s true, to be on this harried plateau where I feel the utter depths of a longing for suicide but grin from ear to ear in the sun driving fast in my car.  I know I’ve had to leave a lot behind and I’m not as glad about some of it as I am about the rest.  There’s a lot of junk back there but love too, and innocence, and every time I hurt you I know I hurt me too.  The best thing that Kali did for me was remind me this wasn’t free.  The bad love and the streets–they’re more than just fodder and grist for good poetry.  It was real and it really happened.  I’m suddenly overcome thinking about the folks I left behind–them in their misery because it was their karma and me out the door ’cause it was mine.

I can’t see an end to the insanity.  Certainly not in the New Century and maybe not in me, either.  I’ve a brave man in my life talking to me about God, and I’ve the same reaction to it I’ve always had.  The only thing changed is not that I’m losing control but that I never had it.  Fate, the World, cold plasmas of space–it’s the nature of things to break down, our bodies included, and I feel the more that gets in the better and the less you leave behind.  I didn’t think it’d get darker but I guess that’s why you get stronger.  Not to see the light but so you can rival the darkness.  Things are really winding down.  My spirituality has always been the seasons but now we’ve no Winter and no Fall and the smiles on all the faces are a prison.  The only other benevolent change has to do with music.  It’s affecting me the way it used to.  It’s splitting me down the middle again, making me feel alive and thousands of volts.  It’s giving me my edge over the sleepers and I burn down the streets of this town like a Black Irish shadow with earbuds.  Rock and Roll never forgets.  Neither love, you should know.  There are some of you reading these words right now and I can feel you in my heart and it makes me strong.  We are all we have.  I’ll keep falling as long’s you keep holding my hand.

See you next week motherfucker.


Goodbye, Goodbye

In poem, Poetry, Uncategorized on October 6, 2017 at 1:11 am

It’s been a life, blown and bowled over, marveling at the destructive act.  It’s been nights cornered by lust, like a fly in a tarantula dream, and days that split the long beams down my eyes.  It was a white sun in Lafayette in 1999 and the only time I truly knew would never be again–in youth.  There was a heavy, grey lead blues and a black flapping ‘gainst the pane blues.  The yards, up north–burning down Camel straights through the chain link, and spitting out hot sugared coffee in the snow.  It’s a good thing to remember now as I can’t turn, I won’t turn, I can’t be–any of these but all of it now and roaring.  The cadence of my later years has laden each day with all the days, each day carrying a load of the days before, my past like a bushel of coal and future that cuts prisms of mash.  I love and lose and I am born and I sink.  I am tequila on Ocean Beach and I am warm Lager above the Dawson in her hot 3rd floor.  If I am all loves then I am all love and every sky is winding and every whisper knows a scar.  Ravenous I am without regret, I revel and twist and dwindle in a reverse sailor’s dive.  I stitch my dreams with nightmare silk and I feed fear to courage, my love is in the mouth of a lion, my love is the cutting stink of a locomotive train.  Everything that was true is still.  Everything that’s false will find you out, and crack you from your earthen bed but if you wave from Heaven we’ll see you and we will wave back from Hell…


In Uncategorized on September 11, 2017 at 4:33 pm

Written on the 10th Anniversary of the World Trade Center Attacks in New York City on September 11, 2001.  Source: untitled

Blog From A Room

In Uncategorized on September 8, 2017 at 10:33 am

“…as long’s we identify with desire, we will continue to suffer needlessly and be further unavailable to those brothers and sisters of the human race who have some real motherfucking problems, Jack. Like war and clean water and a government that comes for your children in the night and puts them in a cell where their fingernails are ripped off.”
#fbf from September 2015. Please visit Medium for the latest post from Going for the Throat.

Going for the Throat

The following post was written last Friday.

I like writing. There is nothing more gratifying than framing a fucker of a day and nailing it to the fucking wall. We mix up the medicine here. Make tapestries of trouble and familiars of the blues. We raise it up and, like those old bluesmen of yore, we shake ’em on down. I can’t do anything for the fuck-yous and jackarounds of life. But a slick 6, a fast 8 or a mean 12? Hell yeah. Word count motherfucker. I like tropes. I like metaphors. I like the way I can phantom her, in a loose gown of skin, and bring her back from the dead to curse her name and bury her all over again. What a life, eh Brother? Sister? What an absolute treasure, a fine fortune to be able to both shut out the madding world and kick…

View original post 415 more words

Boil Water Order

In Activism, Uncategorized on August 31, 2017 at 2:10 pm

Good Reader.

Congratulations.  With your help last week’s post on Medium exceeded the average number of views Going For The Throat receives here.  Your readership is keeping me alive.  I am especially proud of this week’s post, Boil Water Order, and I think you’re going to like it.

See you on Medium motherfucker.

View story at Medium.com


In Uncategorized on August 16, 2017 at 6:33 pm

Hank was always great with the mundane
you couldn’t help but think
after all he’d been through
boredom was a prize for him-
as close as he could get to
being content.
His work helped you appreciate
small and uneventful moments
the minutiae, the drab, the slow
&still moments
when the war is over & you’ve
won yourself
when there’s nothing left for the
world to take
and nothing at all to prove

Hank knew
and the Buddha knew
and now you know it, too.

Hole In My Side

In death, mourning, suicide, Uncategorized on May 25, 2017 at 1:47 pm

Screen Shot 2017-05-25 at 1.37.36 PM

It’s Been A Long Time That I Should Be Far From Here

In Being A Poet, Being A Writer, Being An Artist, Uncategorized on May 11, 2017 at 4:30 pm

For many of us in the KGB, infiltrating the 1970s punk scene was one of the USSR’s most successful experiments of propaganda to date.
Alexandrei Varennikovic Voloshin

Three weeks Tommy boy…
Hero Constituent

The problem with Creative Nonfiction? I’ve addressed it before. The transparency I strive for on here-the bare ugly, it can scrape too close to the bone. Couple that with the fact I’m out of material most weeks and it’s a real dilemma. I know you tune in exactly for this high wire act and I’m thankful for it. Sometimes the only way to get the world off your neck is to build a column of words, 600 high, with venom or in reverie, frame it neat and fine and nail it to the fucking wall. Some people need to be kissed off and the dead should stay buried. Now take all these rules and tell ‘em to the Boss because deadline trumps all. It’s become obscene. We all know about the ones that she hates, and my feelings about the blog are either inside or outside of 20% of them I can be proud of, while the rest are metaphysical bowel movements. For the times when the tide was high and rising, and I managed to get my arms around the thing and send it home, I’m thankful. For your devoted readership, 50+ a week, I’m thankful. But Brother Charlie is right, it’s been surgery on myself without anesthesia, dirty laundry&tears, whining, poems about my dick size, old rivalries roustabouted and new enemies found. In short, it’s fucked but the fix is in. The die is cast and it’s for the fans and a Christian jerkoff on Instagram who learned a valuable lesson about retaliation when engaged in battle with an east coast Pisan.

There’s been much to do about the firing of James Comey this week and I’ve heard enough. When a news story reaches fever pitch, without any answers to the 5 Ws, I find it best to tune it out, put on the latest episode of the Broad Street Breakdown and get horizontal until the sun goes down, maybe take to the streets like some Black Irish manbat or just fall asleep with your clothes on and wake up grizzled and unnerved in a dead Confederate palace to the sound of blowers blowing or club music shaking the rafters at 8 in the morning. It’s a fucked life but I can’t complain. Truth is, this is as good as it’s ever been-but, don’t hate me, it’s not good enough. It’s been a long time that I should be far from here, which should sound familiar to anyone reading this blog on the regular. It’s become my mantra. After all these weeks banging my head against the wall, something had to give and it wasn’t the wall. Being in between isn’t fun anymore. I’m stuck. I come at you every week because I said I would and my word is everything, but the message is the same.

Another constant is my oversight, a deathly modesty that will soon have me forget that I’m 4 cites closer to achieving my goal of 12 new markets by 2018, that I’ve nailed a few venues on the east coast and should be heading out again in July and October. The MAMU is maybe half assembled, certainly amassed, and will be fully operational by the end of the next credit cycle. I sharpened my latest story onstage at the Middle East Corner last month, and gave ‘em the blades at the Poetry&Ptamale Party at Malvern last Friday. Things are moving, even if I’m not. I’m just getting sick and tired of assuring myself of that every week. I need to either make some big moves or be sure that I’m doing the leg work and research for those big moves to go down without a hitch.

Thank you for reading. This blog hasn’t really lived up to its potential, it’s not what I intended it to be. It’s become something else, though-and it’s always a release. I know some of you check in here for the Real, something true and raw in the hall of mirrors that authenticity has become in the New Century. It’s nothing short of a miracle that in writing this blog I’ve been searching for it, that burning beacon, and you read me for just that. That, my Brothers and Sisters, is the power and beauty of creation.

Ab Irato,

Getting Used to Nothing Being Wrong

In Uncategorized on April 27, 2017 at 11:59 pm

Greetings from Central Square.  Fellow reader Kevin O’Brien got stranded in Connecticut, so I’ve set up shop here, at the Starbucks just up the steps from the Red Line in Cambridge, MA.  I’m posted in the corner and facing the red bricked Church In Cambridge, with my guitar, clothes and 50 copies of All in the wind in a black canvas bag.  The rain is coming down.  The following post was written on Tuesday in  sunny Austin.  If you’re reading this on the East Coast, please join us tonight, at the Mill Street Cantina in Bristol, PA, for a 2 hour set by Yours Truly.   As always, thank you for reading.  Your readership is my everything.  

All’s quiet at the mansion.  Almost.  The roofers have loaded out and it’s just me and the Whistler.  I can see him stacking supplies into the bed of black Ram pickup from my window.  Fuck outta here and get gone, so long motherfucker it’s been nice to know ya.  What can I say?  My problems are few.  I can’t complain but I will.  It’s been a long time that I should be far from here.  But how often are our problems a mere cunt hair from their solution?  Any punkrocker or spiritual guru will tell you that’s always true and today I’m one.  That’s right.  As much as it sucks here, I am getting on a plane tomorrow.  Flying all the way across the country to do the work, and that’s the best part, the cherry on top of an already winning enterprise.  I get to do the work.  2 readings and a rock show.  Like I was born to and like I will be doing soon’s I quit this dog&pony for good, start maxing out my frequent flyer miles and living on a hope and a prayer.

The question of when I’m actually going to quit is bugging me.  I hate hanging around, especially when I’m not welcome.  Waiting to quit and get gone smacks too close to being afraid to live my dreams.  And that will never do.  Nothing to worry over, too much anyway.  Many of these questions will answer themselves and I’m sure a taste of the road and the kind of weeks that are happening more and more will sort things out on a quantum level.  That which is in motion tends to stay in motion kind of thing, a principle that’s worked for me ever since I enrolled in the Wilma Theatre School for Acting in 1998.  Do the thing, anything, to keep the darkness at bay and the demons from closing in.  It’s that easy.  Starting, anyway, but starting always is.  Keeping it going or even doubling down on the life of an Artist at 42 is a different ball of wax, and the pardox is it was easier to start when it felt hard.  Now that the reasons for me to remain on the straight and narrow, and keep my nose down in a 9 to 5 are many and all but stacked against me, it’s a go and it couldn’t feel any easier.  It’s the mechanics of the thing that will be the bugaboo.  I’ve been well paid too long, and rather than figure things out I’ve just thrown money at them.  Slowing down, being prepared, making informed decisions about the life I want to live is as foreign to me as anything else in the straight world.  I been a pirate too long.  I’ve thrived on chaos and am world famous for moving before you even know I’m gone.

It’ll all sort itself out I’m sure.  The first order of business for me is to buy a car, maybe 2 if I want to keep my touring vehicle separate from the daily grind.  Speaking of which, I will need a daily grind.  Something I can make stacks of money at, and put to use booking flights and Air B&Bs, for book orders, and shirts and EPs-merch.  I suppose once I buy a car I could begin booking Texas gigs, thereby making the transition that much smoother.  I love how writing a blog straightens me out and I love that you take time out of your busy life to join me.  Everything is easy and right, which could potentially hurt this blog-having nothing to complain about.  Well…

…I’ve had to pull stakes and finish this post at the bougie coffee shop.  Luckily they’re playing The Pixies&Interpol and not the soundtrack to your cousin’s wedding and a man can get some work done.  I left the Whistler back there on the roof of the mansion.  If you think there’s something wrong with a grown man moving into a 150 square foot cabin to live his dreams then you haven’t seen a man whistling outside your window like some mansize Mexican songbird, with a roofing trowel in a tar bucket and a shit eating grin.  If these are my problems then what the hell am I complaining about-right Brother, Sister?  There’s a 23 year old Jim Trainer drooling over my 42 year old problems, probably on a roof in the suburbs somewhere and hating that sub but…what are you gonna do, eh?  Sometimes the worst kind of trouble is no trouble at all.

See you in Boston Motherfucker.