Jim Trainer

Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

GOD BLESS SHEILA BUCK

In Uncategorized on July 2, 2020 at 9:00 am

I’m not quite sure what I just read.
-Renee Phillips

I couldn’t begin to describe the crushing disappointment I’ve walked around with every day of my 45th year, but maybe I won’t have to.  Free fall is never good but when ushered in by a carny plutocrat with a dictator fetish, landing is worse.  I’m not who I was supposed to be but in a strange turn of macabre luck, I won’t have to dwell on it too long.  I need to be here for what’s happening now but I still get stuck in a loop on the socials, yelling at Right Wing Gene, supine in the big chair and passive for hours and yes, even wrapped up in my own blues and disappointment–as selfish and disgusting as that trip is.  However, sometimes, a line or motif or theme will be on the tip of my tongue and I’ll reach for a self-published collection of my own work and turn the pages on the only archive I have (besides this digital trail of over 72k words and a tote in the garage of a green and white house in Delaware).  There comes a pride when reaching out and seizing your own work off the shelf but the truth is these books are the deal I made.  Without self-publishing a collection every year I’d have sunk to even greater swells of disappointment and self-loathing.  My work is the hard proof Good Reader that I am not as threadbare and compliant, that I haven’t sold out all the way, and anyway I’m still kicking some–even if it means doing what I have to for 30 hours a week and writing when I can.

Writing when I can is what Going For The Throat was/is all about.  It was always about writing and the way through and writing as the way through.  Therapy or anyway flesh peddling and egomania.  It resonated with you and that’s a miracle.  It kept the muscle working and procured for me essays in journals and even my own column.  I write about what’s wrong with me and we’re here together and isn’t that nice?  Except that this country has slipped out beneath our feet and at last count 63 million people don’t mind the cashout of our lives, would rather not have healthcare if the Government says they need it, even though they do need it and anyway are victimized by The America, too.  Its schools and violence.  Its brutish and cruel capitalism yielding diminishing returns on your lifetime.  It’s got them so punchdrunk they’ll believe and repeat that the uptick in infection is due to testing.  I get the anger.  But it’s blinded them, and given them a sense of power they haven’t felt before and need so bad.  The fact that a lot of them aren’t intellectually ahead of the curve shouldn’t matter, but it does.  The fact that they need to be told about right or wrong and worship power as the only principle shouldn’t matter, but it does.  Country simple, the only problem with 63 million dumbshits blind with rage is they’re armed.  The only problem with their Paleolithic beliefs delivered by a modern market Jesus is that they’re on the street, without masks and behind the wheel.

Which is all to say I’ve been writing my way through.  Who could blame me, sure, but this blog comes up empty Good Reader, as does my life every week.  I take this complaint to the work and write my way through it and the whole thing starts again.  It’s this grisly perpetual motion machine that’s kept the lights on and the banner flowing, a cycle of misery and release and covering, like a reporter, depression as my beat.  It worked for coming on 10 years now but that was before this age of crumbling and dissolution, before the rains came and when we weren’t drowning in our own blood.

ACB 2

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ALL I NEED IS ONE TRUE FRIEND

In Uncategorized on June 25, 2020 at 12:00 pm

 

scottthepainterscottthepainter on Instagram

The rich build monuments to generals—the poor to martyrs.
Charlie O’Hay

Some of the tropes are familiar, but we haven’t seen this movie before. No one knows how dark things could get, only that, in the Trump era, scenes that seem nightmarish one day come to look almost normal the next.
Michelle Goldberg

The only principle is power.
Jon Stewart

Morning.  It’s the first week of summer in America.  I don’t know what the death toll should be or how the Police could go on killing us without our protest but it’s 92 days til Fall.  NPR blathers but under the spinning fan I can’t make out what they say.  It’s overcast but it’s always raining here.  I’m writing this at odds with my workweek, the daygig–I should get a jump on things but sometimes I feel this need, and I know enough to know, you don’t take the muse to the dance she’ll just find another ranch hand.  I don’t know if I’ve buried the lede or if I’m just getting warmed up and holding fast to anti-essay writing and anyway eschewing the rules of journalism until I can come through with my own voice which brings me to point.  Last week’s post was an embarrassment but also–a success.  I wrote about getting on message and devoting these channels to the cause.  But I’ve done little to no research (though I maintain the due diligence of a personal journalist by adding to a Word doc called The Week and to a raft of grudge and smear I swear I’ll get to as soon as I can determine how slagging them will benefit me).  The latter is their names mostly and links to their socials.  Hateful, small (white) people who’re on the record now in a WordPress draft and anyway potential stories, leads and jumping off points for the new news and this–personal journalism.

I’m offering a limited edition broadside letter pressed at the Austin Book Arts Center last summer.  Jet black and cool red ink on white stock.  AMERICAN CENTURY BLUES, from Love&Wages and whose proceeds benefit and support the ACLU in their efforts fighting for our rights. Pictured with link below.  That ought to cover the last 7 days while of course I was working 30 hours for the non-profit and feeding myself, trying to get a pool date and cinch my circle of friends to a tight two, maybe, though I guess one’ll work for the dissolution of the republic in the time of corona.  Otherwise I’m back at it.  Trump’s failed rally and a few days without murder porn have made me reasonable if not well.  I’m still thinking on how to further the cause and besides the broadsides and this column, and my monthly at Into The Void, the boys and I are putting up a wire and should have some stories and media coming through, an offering somewhere between the slough of online coverage and the armchair piss-and-peanut gallery.   I’m taking my own advice, Good Reader, just had to give it a couple times and anyway truly hear it.  I’m re-devoting my energies.  I could get down and twist titty with Lynette the scowling wench from Arkansas City–what would that do though but stoke both our flues and build it up in me to fever pitch a mix of rage and righteousness too big for this small room I spend inside or outside of 21 hours a day in?  Let Lynette live and drag herself for all I care.  Let them all reveal themselves and if they got stones as big as their keyboard fingers we’ll see them on the streets motherfucker.

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ARTHUR MILLER WAS WRONG

In Uncategorized on June 18, 2020 at 12:00 pm

8378e0829fecc95364ee272b25364d2bHam and egg salad on white bread, keeps me company on nights like this,
a pack of mentholated cigarettes keeps my air nice and thick…
-PRIMUS

Personal Journalism is a hard dollar.  The toughest job I never get paid for.  I trawl my own depths for a bit of your time.  I wrangle my blues, and put it down, 600 words at a time.  They say I’m a writer and I like when they say that.  I don’t slave over the text at least not all at once and I usually only edit it for flow.  I’ll tweak a post though, throughout the week and in this way a blog can get better over time like wine.  One thing’s for sure, I get it down and I feel better always.  Depending on what’s eating me and how deep I’ve gone, re-reading isn’t pleasant unless I nail it.  A good piece is a good piece even if it’s got some flesh in it.  I suppose I cringe the most when I’ve exposed myself and it’s not even good–posts that ramble and confess and anyway champion me and my own ego.  Who the fuck do I think I am?  I ask myself reading over these types of posts, cringing until the window is closed and I can convince myself it’ll all come out in the wash once the book comes out.  The Going For The Throat anthology ought to prune out these…I don’t know what to call them, posts that say too much but not really anything and where I go on and on about me as if I’m important or worth reporting on.  Just know, Good Reader and best believe–I’m only mining for the goods.  …in the coal mines of isolation are diamonds of solitude, or something like that.  That’s from MORE FROM THE TRENCHES, written last May and a particularly cringey Hi my name is Jim Trainer and I’m an alcoholic-type of post.  As a writer I know it had to be written but as a reader I judge the author for flesh-peddling and egomania.

Point is not every day at the desk is a good one.  I sometimes have to sell parts of my life I’d just as soon not admit and certainly not make public and available to over 70 readers a day.  It is what it is.  I nail it and all is forgiven.  Even now, with a post on personal journalism as plodding and fucking ponderous as this half-over–I am having the time of my life.  Writing and reflecting has sustained me in a way not much else has.  I make communion with myself and you bear witness and it’s perfect.  Call me a writer and it’s love.  I wrote inspired by pain and after 10 years posting here, and 35 besides, I found no better motivator.  I wrote on break–Saturdays or in the middle of the week when I tell ’em I’m on my way in but really my phone is still in bed and I’m getting down to the grainy part of the pot, the light through the blinds is perfect at the desk and it’s flowing molten, neat and fine. Goddamn.  Catch as catch can writing, inspired by what’s wrong with Jimbo, has given me this-ahem-career in the Arts.  It could be better served ain’t it and these days every time I write I feel guilty.  If I don’t write on current events I’m part of the problem and if I do I’m taking up valuable bandwidth.  You know where this is going.  This platform could be better served.  I just need to put in the research and research=time.

I’ve got the time too, Good Reader.  Maybe next week I’ll get right back to roasting crackers and pig Cops, slicing and serving up my enemy because fuck them.  There’s always room here for it but we’re gonna need better fuel.  There’s something deeper than anger that I’m hip to and it’s health and probably a cleaner currency.  Something to help us run on for a long time that doesn’t blind us but helps the world to see.  The way out of the dark, Good Reader, and not some cheap, sugar-high whiteboy armchair outrage either.  Like I said I got the time.  I’m only doing 30 at the non-profit and I’m more than inclined to make kicking against the pricks my vocation full time.

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2031, JIM TRAINER’S SIXTH FULL-LENGTH COLLECTION OF POETRY, IS AVAILABLE NOW THROUGH YELLOW LARK PRESS.

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…into it, brightly with pain…
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Well. 

In Uncategorized on June 11, 2020 at 7:15 pm

Stop treating us like animals..2but my mind cuts through it all
Like a wrecking ball
-Gillian Welch

The long arc of history better fucking bend toward justice.
Lisa Konigsburg

I’m a misanthrope but also I’m depressed.
-Your Writer

They were like “We’re on your side and we believe in what you’re doing and what you’re  fighting for.”
Amisha Harding on doing the Macarena with the National Guard

Austin is a really cool place for people that are not aware of the injustices occurring in the world.
Chas Moore, Founder
The Austin Justice Coalition

Stop treating us like animals and thugs, start treating us with some respect.
-Mike O’Meara, President
New York Association of Police Benevolent Associations

There’s blood on the streets,
the streets are ours…

-The Blitz

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I can’t tell you anything man.  Not what you know already and certainly not what you don’t.  The proof is on film.  It’s indisputable.  Medics and pregnant women shot.  Non-protesting citizens maced.  Innocents swung on with skull cracking batons and the rest ran right over with horses.  It’s got me sick.  Anyone reading this column too I reckon and anyway who hasn’t trusted the Police or USGOV since their first rude awakening to the de rigueur brutality and death culture of The America.  Deniers humanize cops but it’s their only trick in the stack.  Similarly they dehumanize victims and frame this as a fight between criminals and citizens.  The fight isn’t against cops but the cops are in our way.  Who they’re serving and protecting is who we’re up against and they forfeited their humanity when they put the badge above it.  Point is this is a war between the rich and poor.  Country simple, black and white.  Facts.  Black Americans are 2.5 times more likely to be killed by the police than whites while their median income is 20% less (according to the US Census).

The last thing I’d want is to get into a war of words or contest of research, especially if you’ve already made up your mind.   I don’t anticipate any of that from my cherished Readership.  For what it’s worth my record stands as staunchly anti-authoritarian and pro-working class. Sides are drawn and this is a good fight.  I haven’t felt more alive or inclined to take to the streets since marching in Philly for Mumia in ’98.  There’s a cynicism that happens to idealists, Oscar Wilde said it better, but I’ve had the option to hide out and make my way in the underground.  Truth is I owe it all to my heroes for showing me the way and to all of you when I got there.  I’m still getting there.  Personal journalism was my way of crassly staying on brand but also writing here and at Into The Void was and still is my refuge.  Even now, choppers still circling overhead, them banging out some millionaire’s new construction next door, some other millionaire’s kids whining from their jungle gym on the other side and having to throw this Dell on the desk, jump up and just make it to the john to piss blood out my ass–writing is how I’m dealing.

My worries are real but few.  I’m fed.  I’ve walls and a bed.  Truth is I’m living down a decades-old trauma, far from recovering though I do make strides.  I’m doing what you do if you can do it–you take your lumps and your savings, take the pay they’re giving and make home, play nice and insulate yourself as much as you humanly can from the people and culture of this country.  They’ve got us fighting them and I don’t mind.  I never cared for bullies.  Truth is our anger is needed elsewhere so I don’t waste too much time on those crackers and uniform fetishists anyway.  I commit personal journalism because it needs to be told at the street level.  I like it in the underground, it’s quiet mostly, but lately living this way has only got me sick.  Maybe I’ve lost you, maybe this post isn’t anything but whiteboy complaint and, so–before I get back to work on the day gig I’d like to go on the record saying I never liked cops.  I never will and I never realized how much the USGOV did for me until it didn’t.  Let’s be clear this is a 20-year old problem and we all know who we are and what we’re doing here.  Sides have been drawn and I’m glad.  It’s never been clearer.  They make me sick and y’all make me so proudSee you on the streets motherfucker.

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In Uncategorized on June 4, 2020 at 8:48 pm

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What if you had the opportunity to take away people from this place?
Andrew Farnsworth 

How they’re named after the fact of their fast deaths…
Jihyun Yun

Life is imitating the wrong art.
Henry Nagle

jr 4

Felton Pilot, producer of MC Hammer, the lead singer and trombone player told me…You have something.  Never quit show business.  You are going to make it.  
-Kolob Harvest

It’s possible I’m being ironic.  I’m not quite sure anymore.
Brian Rihlmann

I hope the city doesn’t burn down tonight.
Don Bajema

IMG_4909

Despite the fact that I use patterns and certain color combinations in my artwork, I am not a believer in, or follower of, bullshit.  
Justin Duerr

He is my President.🇺🇸💯
-Stephanie Casey

Blind obedience, congratulations.
-Jason Dikes

sarahPHOTO BY SARAH H. BLOOM

I hate writing so close to deadline.  I’m liable to pop off about how a dead cop is a good start or that if you’re still behind this administration there can’t be any appeals to your sense of reason.  Willfully ignorant is generous though probably dumb as dogshit and racist and anyway unwilling to see the cities burning, the old folks dying, the schools and teachers, first-responders and hourly-wage workers getting razed and ragged on a burning hot spit of the American Dream.  Nothing I can say you’re going to hear or that H.L. Mencken hasn’t said already.  Trump is everything they love about this country.  The police and strongman politics are why I left the suburbs but the city was no better.  What happened in Fishtown last week was just a Monday for them.  They might not have chased black people down the street before George Floyd was murdered but they certainly relished and seized upon the opportunity with the blessing of the Philadelphia F.O.P.

What a field day for the heat, eh Good Rioter?  I’m writing an hour before you’ll read it, in the dead heat of a quiet evening.  The truth is I can’t point fingers because I’m not out there and neither are you or anyone who’s afraid of getting the corona virus.  Consider that those who are out there, risking life and limb and at the mercy of an Army of Pigs, have no other option but to risk catching a deadly disease.  They’re getting killed anyway.   Might as well try and make a change.  I’m a horrible reporter.    A world on fire is what a true reporter lives for, why we’ve had and have great men–like Hunter Thompson and Cornel West and anyone who’s ever carried a camera like a torch.  Their words mean something or they did and who’s writing the new stuff if not some tacky lower-middle class cracker on Twitter under a red and black banner?  Why should I be safe indoors writing as the their bones break and crowds get fired on and gassed?  Why should I let the pigs win another day for The America, the news reels roll on without me trying to affect change or at least maim and hurt horribly the office of law and aggressors of order?

The truth hurts but at least it’s the truth and I’ve done 468 words in service to personal journalism.  It’s hardly worthy duty but a duty nonetheless to go on the record, here, and say–it’s too comfortable for people like me, otherwise I’d be out there swinging on them and bleeding.  What’s more this cause is just and they should come for us all, force our hand to make a stand and look a pig in the eye before we squash and shut this whole system down.

USING YOUR VOICE IS NO SMALL THING.

distress

PERSONAL JOURNALISM, PUBLIC ACCOUNTABILITY.

IT’S ALWAYS RAINING HERE

In Uncategorized on May 28, 2020 at 11:04 am

Spotify values Rogan more than any musician in the history of the world.
-Ted Gloria

World domination, not the Fat Mike stuff.
-Brian Baker

He fractured more with every step.
-Sam Sodomsky on Elliott Smith

You are not in control of the emotions that come to you but you’re in control of how you choose to act with those emotions in your system.
John Moe

Trying to change someone’s mind is like a termite gnawing on a temple.
Mark Thousands

Nice headline, eh Good Reader?  Don’t get your hopes up.  I’m just checking in to say that going on is the new crazy.  Remember when this wasn’t the case and not being able to deal was the chink in your armor?  Back in school, you didn’t go along, they put you in a room, called you retarded or faggot.  Then some kid sang on TV in a glorified garage-punk band and suddenly you were a hero.  Jocks dyed their hair.  Girls talked to you.  Nevermind, for my generation, was the looking glass.  The world went through but the tried and true knew a ruse.  We’d never be able to tell who was cool again.  The same jocks who did an about face on calling us freaks grew up and straightened out and married the girls who did it, too.  No one wants to live on the fringe too long.  Even I gave up, after thirty long and lean years.  Point is was a time when dropping out made you weird.  You didn’t want what they were offering the fuck was wrong with you.  It’s hard to tell exactly when the world went through the looking glass again.  ‘16’s a good bet but I remember how dumb and rabid they all got in ‘01.  There’d be no Kid Rock without 9/11 although the pandemic’s tripled the dead we’ll never forget with nary a peep from the Kid Rock-MAGA-marrying-your-high school-girlfriend crowd.  Wow…point is, damn, point is now, if you go along you’re nuts.  If you’re able to deal you’re crazy.  Step outside into streets filled with blood, drive to work in the tropical rain hoping your car doesn’t need a new starter or some emergency dental work doesn’t put you below the poverty line and having to make that call where you kiss your mom’s ass and tell her she was right about college and that she could vote worse than Trump.

I’m in a bad mood.  Life is great.  It rains all the time here.  The weather is wrong.  I’m not feeling getting by.  Getting by is why—600 words here every Thursday since I got shot down by a gilf who wanted me to pay for a shiatsu session before sex.  Nowadays it’s flirty phone calls in the middle of the workday and and anyway insincere invitations over for coffee.  It’s a good thing that after all this time I’ve learned to be alone.  I just gave up on jerking off minutes ago if that’s any indication of how dumb and inured and off the charts mind-boggingly fucked and at the chipper blades the world and life in the Final Century has become.  Getting by is batshit cuckoo.  I don’t wanna talk about my problems.  That Trump supporting cop choked that poor man to death while his partner stood by trying to look hard but only coming off like a sociopathic piglet.  100,000 people have died.  There’s lots of talk about tests but I haven’t seen one in 3 months of being locked down.  Austin’s tropical.  The yard’s being overrun with lizards.  To get by and go along there is no way you aren’t part or all the way gone.  The Goddamned plane has crashed into the mountain.  The amount of denial one needs to get through any given day is colossal.  I’m a denial-mummy, wrapped in it like gauze, loading up on wipes and dish soap scowling at the bums outside CVS and living down the 11 years we have left before the planet’s taken over by cops and lizards.  It’s not lost on me, however, that there’s an opportunity for me here.

To get better now is crazier than a Tomi Lahren think tank.  It even out-crazies me to get better, now, as everything is failing and somehow rise to the occasion and be my best in a dark and tumultuous world where if the humans don’t kill you the weather will.  I feel it too, truth be told Good Reader.  Every day I don’t live up to my best me I’ve a shame but worse–a sediment and soreness in the bones.  There’s something in me that’s got to come out.  Truth is I don’t get better I might as well end it, leave it all to Mama Jul and Little Brother and take a high and final bow from the ceiling.  That would be the sane thing to do.  Ain’t it the way, too, that just as I slipped the mortal coil and stepped outside forever my phone would ring and she’d be hoping I could pick up some half and half on my way over.

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PLAGUE DADDY

In Uncategorized on May 21, 2020 at 9:00 am

I feel more fellowship with the defeated than with saints. Heroism and sanctity don’t really appeal to me. What interests me is being a man.
The Plague

I’m finally done with always trying to get it right
I drink a flat Coca-Cola in the cold sunlight…
Cory Branan

White collar work.  It’s got its charms.  Maybe the honeymoon wore off but I’m glad I made the leap.  I started there full-time on January 16.  I’d just got back from Philly and Portland the month before.  To say I was burned out is an understatement.  I’d self-published my 6th full-length and Will Stenberg‘s too.  I read on both coasts and captained parties throughout the holiday season.  Looking back I think it was the people I was working for that burned me out the most though the new clientele can take it to another level.  I’ll stand up to ’em and raise my voice but do you know what a drag it is to have to do that every time you go into work?  My second day there someone put a bullet on my desk but I’ve seen it all.  If decades in the food service industry haven’t made me fearless then they’ve made me hard to kill.  Coming up in the city taught me much, not the least of which how to size up a Somalian gangster wannabe in the office of a cinder-block building in the barrio.  I’ve had enough trouble and dysfunction to last a lifetime, certainly enough to see it coming miles away.  The way someone walks tells me everything I need to know anyway.  I either brace myself, cross the street or get out the way and let ’em pass.  These are the options on the street.  Show mercy when you can and don’t be a mark but keep in mind the truly violent hardly give warning.  The yelling and masculine sport out there is dumb and about as interesting as chickenshits -for-brains at a pecking party.  Fuck’s sake man.  How did we end up here?

I started this post writing about being white collar now, for a non-profit in the hood with a needy clientele.  In many ways I found my tribe.  It certainly wasn’t this choad and his Christmas party last December, cursing me up and down for closing the bar early.  The self-made millionaire forgot where he came from and I’d pay money to see him walk that shit in my office’s neighborhood.  Liable to get his whole body chopped off.  Point is things are copacetic, mostly, staring at a screen all morning, literally punching the keys and calling my laptop a cunt, learning a new operating system and software before lunch, taking meetings and getting paid direct deposit, same money on the 15th and 30th with bennies and a desk I haven’t sat at or seen since March 23.  I wouldn’t go as far as to say I’m happy now because–well, because I’m not.  You try working 20 years in the trades only to discover you didn’t have to and could in fact make more money doing less as long’s you don’t mind burning all your patience either teaching someone how to print a doc or learning yourself–how write curriculum, copy and get it all on film and to the city before they take your funding away.  I work 30 hours for the non-profit and “come home” and get to work.  I’m not happy, who is, but I’ll gladly keep an office in the hood and rather do work at a screen and desk than ever have to step foot behind a millionaire’s coded gate in serving whites with a tight grin and a heart full of hate again.

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IN ANTICIPATION OF CHARLES BUKOWSKI’S 100th BIRTHDAY THIS SUMMER,THE SCHUYLKILL VALLEY JOURNAL WILL BE HOSTING A READING THIS SUNDAY TO CELEBRATE AND PROMOTE THE RELEASE OF ITS BUKOWSKI ISSUE.  DM ME FOR THE LINK.
potw 51820
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…At 45 I’m not celebrating the life but glad I got one. It’s not free or perfect and it doesn’t feel as good as a bourbon at sunrise, cigarillos in the shade and anyway the complete and utter devastation that comes from fucking within an inch of your life, drenched in sweat and dead under her slow and spinning fan…
continue reading at Into The Void

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NOBODY CALLS

In Uncategorized on May 14, 2020 at 9:00 am

Finished with my woman ‘cause she couldn’t help me with my mind…
Black Sabbath

And lead me through the World of Self…
Warren Zevon

Dead quiet is all I wanted and today Good Reader I got it.  No construction or laborer’s Tejano, no blower, no piss kids in the yard behind me.  I even got the blind to the wide, green window drawn so as not to jinx it and anyway let any energy from out there get in here.  Perfect analogy for how hermetically sealed I’ve lived for what seems like most of my life.  This age anyway, these strange days that I take refuge in small quiet hours somewhere typing on machines insect-thin or heavy and humming like a tank.  By and large these expeditions occur only in the Great Indoors.  I tried coffee shops ain’t I but most of the time it’s some jagoff listening to Maiden or Aphex Twin and anyway who’s personality is on display and distracting me from the work and not because said barista is interesting but precisely because he is not.  Which, I’m sorry, is how I feel about most of them—square and tame and shooting their energy all over me but, don’t get me started.  I’ll only add that they could get away with so much if they just shut the fuck up.  Quiet gets a pass and anyway that’s what started me off here, today, posting that by and large I don’t want to talk or collaborate.  I don’t want to share or do things together.  Certain people I’m connected to, let’s call them blood, it doesn’t matter what we do but most of them bore and irritate and couldn’t interest me less with their opinions and politic, music and reasons to live.  Such it is, I suppose, when you’re asocial and people are often so phony they don’t even know it, especially if they keep you believing which is probably why they exhaust me and I wish they’d shut it and anyway why I’m indoors mostly (besides the obvious) and silence is indisputably the greatest sound I’ve ever heard.

Similarly and along these same lines, the sad part about the end of the world is that in my own orbit it won’t even make a small damn.  The fires will have to come to the door and blood will have to rise up to the window for me to bat an eye on the ruin and dissolution of everything the world holds precious and dear.  Could be depression—it’s bore apathy so deep into me I don’t even know different.  My money’s on the fact that everything’s on lock and anyway rigged.  There’s nowhere to run or hide and being free is impossible as long as someone or something else is there.  Well.  Breaking it down this afternoon ain’t it.  Gone from depression and mental health to straight up misanthropy.  Perhaps I am not not taking shelter because I’m too sensitive and the world runs on sports and parades and war.  Maybe I don’t like anyone because they are anyone.  Like even if it was just me and the Dalai Lama I’d have to peace out early and get back to the big chair, turn on the air and get lost between my apartment walls’ weird wilderness, zone out and get brained and slavish on solo time.  The one saving grace to all this anomie perhaps is that I think I could spend days with her, getting into that white robe and taking all her hair in one hand and her waist in the other.  When I think about the tan on those southern Californian legs I suddenly find maybe I don’t want to be alone or even write at all.  Who can write when there’s a body like that in your bed, purring and warm and who after several orgasms will make you strong, sweet coffee, a leek omelette, juice and toast?  Well.  That’s neither here nor there ain’t it and anyway besides the fact we’re all on quarantine, I’m fat and old and have to run to the john night and day.  I’m hideous, besides being antisocial, and those are my good qualities.

I’m trapped in the past and just like my old man only not as smart.  I’m dumb and damaged on love and I don’t have anything to say or add to the National Conversation.  Lucky for me the conversation’s on conspiracy theories anyway and worse—character-limited outrage.  Point is I’m fucked, Good Reader.  I’m not a good person and I’ve a real dark take on things, bad habits and petty outrages of my own.  It’s grim here, at the writer’s desk, and dim and dismal in my apartment but from what I’ve seen of them and their world it’s better than almost anywhere else.

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I’m Jim Trainer and this is my work.

In Uncategorized on May 7, 2020 at 9:34 am

Summer’s end’s around the bend just flying
the swimming suits are on the line just drying…
John Prine

Two years ago, Philip Elliott asked me to write a column for Into the Void after reading my essay in the Fredericksburg Literary and Art Review.  I’d wanted to be a columnist ever since I discovered the great work of Hunter S. Thompson and, as great poet Christia Madacsi Hoffman suggested, I needed to write about something other than myself.  The landscape is different now.  The news bums me out.  We are the generations that have done nothing to stop the blood and fire that have come to kill us and burn the planet down.  Perhaps nothing can be done.  That’s certainly how it feels and anyway The Coarse Grind and my column “on writing” has become a veritable Artist’s log and credo at the end of the world.  To wit…

…At 45 I’m not celebrating the life but glad I got one. It’s not free or perfect and it doesn’t feel as good as a bourbon at sunrise, cigarillos in the shade and anyway the complete and utter devastation that comes from fucking within an inch of your life, drenched in sweat and dead under her slow and spinning fan…continue reading at Into The Void

 

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Photo courtesy of Sarah H. Bloom.
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THE DELETERIOUS BOON OF AGE

In Uncategorized on April 30, 2020 at 8:49 am

Let me put it this way: when they compile a list of the heroes of this era, I will not be on it.
Fran Lebowitz

Pernicious, baneful, noxious, and detrimental are the wicked synonyms of deleterious. All five words refer to something exceedingly harmful. Of the group, deleterious is most often used for something that is unexpectedly harmful. Pernicious implies irreparable harm done by something that degrades or undermines in an evil or insidious way (“the pernicious effects of corruption”), while baneful suggests injury through poisoning or destruction (“the baneful consequences of war”). Noxious can apply to anything that is both offensive and injurious to the health of body or mind (“noxious chemical fumes”), and detrimental implies an obvious harmfulness to something specified (“the detrimental effects of excessive drinking”)
-Definition of deleterious by Merriam Webster

The vampire is dead.
Will Stenberg

I’m gonna go against even my own grain.  I’m gonna make it good.  Always on the wrong side of whatever side there was, paltry poetry and meme culture, and the simple fact that happy people always seemed so fake all but sured my reputation as the spoiler.  I sidelined the parade.  I poo-pooed.  Only had a good time when they weren’t.  Went for the throat and pulled out every rug I could.  I was born to lose and proud to but now I think it high time to flip my own script and make it good.  The second worst thing I’ve ever done is waste time.  I’m here to make amends for that.  The very worst thing I’ve ever done, well—I’d like to make amends for that, too, but I don’t think it’s going to happen and certainly not here for the benefit of the public and as a function of my career as a personal journalist.  These last couple years have been the Age of X—X being this nameless and horrible thing, I’d all but forgot about, rearing.  Truth is no matter how I strive, no matter my progress or stride—this thing I’ve done is always there assuring me I’m not great, I’m no better and if I decided to throw stones they’d never make it past my own glass walls.  So much for all that, though it’s not over and anyway the thing I can change and at least make amends for is time wasted.

Depression and anger are a two-headed snake and if I wasn’t strapped or bogged down by one then the other exhausted me and kept me from growing and at least knowing myself.  Anger’s burned a lot of folks right out of my life.  I suppose I’ll have to reckon with who I lost but I don’t know if that’ll ever happen.  I like being alone.  I probably would’ve liked the Italian countryside in the summer of ‘03 too but I never took her up on it.  I hung back in the cut of working class Philly, burned down my Father’s life insurance payout, drank and generally did what you do there—wasted time.  Depression made the moments hard to bear and it sent me out, sometimes wildly and with success, too.  Was a time in Philly I was in 2 bands, DJing for 2 radio stations and still finding time to write and even fall in love.  All good things and fine memories to have as I wake as if from a dream at 45, in a town far away and living and writing in a 1-bedroom with an electric typewriter and an upright bass.  Point is there was some brightness back there and some bright here now, today.  Large swathes of dark though too, Bubba, that still lurk low in my life like a creeping fog, making me feel tired and overwhelmed and wooing me into self-induced sugar comas and “naps” that are really nights taken from me and this one precious life.  45 is cold, Jack, a slap in the face of someday and death tolling loud and clear.

I want what I always wanted.  The difference is I want it now.  If I’m not making strides then I’m only living and while that deserves some pride and recognition, it’s not enough, it never was.  Making a living doesn’t make a damn to me.  I got no kids.  No college debt.  A 9-year old Japanese car with less than 80k miles.  Over 50,000 people who didn’t have to die are gone.  The rest of us just as expendable.  The US GOV has spoken.  There isn’t anywhere to run or hide except maybe the Netherlands.  You know why I’m here.  On the pages of this column anyway.  Why I’m still bought in to The America is a marriage of convenience.  The fact that the whole world is ending out there, every day more dead and all they do is cash us out as the news media panders to our identities and otherwise only jerks us off.  Truth about this column is the truth about everything I write—I’m only trying to say one thing.  The rest is bluster and filigree.  My name is Jim Trainer and I’m an alcoholic.  I’ve wasted decades you want to add it up and I’m here to make amends.  I get up early now but not early enough.  I write at least 600 words here every Thursday, and another 1,200 at Into The Void every month.  I send out letters, write poems and clear out the wreckage.  I’m starting my own business—as a sole proprietor or LLC.  I’m poised to do what I’ve always done but now I know.  Being tired is bullshit.  Overwhelmed.  The end of the world is a sad state of affairs but I’m not crying about it anymore.  I thought we’d have at least 11 more years but no matter.  I also thought I’d be 23 forever, that you’d forgive me and always let me in and out of the heat.  You haven’t forgiven me and it’s getting hot out here.  I’m 45 and compiled of all the years I lost and bad business done to self-medicate and numb out the pain.  The world is over, the US GOV is cashing out.  I’m not here to tell you any different.  I know now more than ever that I am gonna die but if you’ll excuse me that is precisely why I’ve got so much work to do.

BF38FF01-B60F-439F-B31D-6FE0E20F71D3PART 26 OF THE COARSE GRIND, THIS SUNDAY AT INTO THE VOID.

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2031, JIM TRAINER’S SIXTH FULL-LENGTH COLLECTION OF POETRY, IS AVAILABLE NOW THROUGH YELLOW LARK PRESS.

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TO CELEBRATE NATIONAL POETRY MONTH, JIM TRAINER PARTICIPATED IN THE #30for#30 CHALLENGE AND WROTE AN ORIGINAL POEM EVERY DAY FOR THE MONTH OF APRIL.

4/1
ANOTHER DAY OUT
4/2
UNTITLED DOCUMENT
4/3
POET AT DAWN
4/4
SHUDOWN#
4/5
SHUTDOWN#2
4/6
JULY IN SOFIA
4/7
SHUTDOWN#3
4/8
SHUTDOWN#4
4/9
SHUTDOWN#5
4/10
THE DEAD
4/11
THE MYSTIC DICE OF HEAVY BONES
4/12
UNTITLED
4/13
UNTITLED
4/14
LEARNING TO DIE IN THE ANTHROPOCENE
4/15
JUST KIDDING
4/16
DEPRESSION MAGIC HAIKU
4/17
UNTITLED
4/18
PALE LIGHT
4/19
NEW CENTURY MYTHOLOGY
4/20
DIMINISHING RETURNS ON PRIVILEGE
4/21
FOR BLOOD
4/22
EVEN
4/23
4/24
4/25
IMITATING ART
4/26
EULOGIES
4/27
THE WHY OF ART
4/28
4/29
4/30