Jim Trainer

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FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE-VAX POPULI VAX DEI, AN EVENING OF POETRY&STANDUP TRAGEDY WITH JIM TRAINER

In Uncategorized on October 7, 2021 at 10:15 am
Jim Trainer, Poet

PRESS RELEASE

Contact: Jim Trainer

Phone: 512-203-6288

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE 

10/5/21

VAX POPULI VAX DEI-AN EVENING WITH JIM TRAINER IN AUS-OGG-PDX-CML-ATO-PHL

Poet, publisher and performer Jim Trainer brings his Standup Tragedy™ to Athens, at Donkey Coffee on October 22.  With a show consisting of music, the spoken word and dark humor Trainer has embarked on a vax-card only tour, with dates everywhere from Maui to Philadelphia.  Trainer is promoting the release of his 8th collection of poetry, STRIDE, due out in December through Yellow Lark Press.  In addition, he will offer a limited edition and letter pressed broadside of his poem RECURRENT, shared below, along with back titles and a 5-song EP.  


Trainer’s VAX POPULI VAX DEI tour was booked in response to being unable to book a tour through the usual channels, and going crazy at home like everybody else from a lack of performing. 

“It’s a punk rock operation all day, Bubba,” Trainer says.  “I’ve got cities booked without venues, but I’m not worried.  I need the stage as much as I needed the vaccine.”  The tour’s been hatched together by a job interview in HI and his biannual homecoming to Philadelphia—Hostile City USA.  

As a personal journalist Trainer has spent over a decade chronicling the inner life of a creative, while documenting the travails of being a shift worker, “romantic nihilist” and citizen trying to “stay in walls” and continue writing in peace alone.

Jim Trainer’s storytelling, poetry and song are from the street level but with a literary bent.  Punk rock poetry.  What else.  Offering a “least factual, most accurate” account of an artist trying to make it in the end times.  Join Jim Trainer in celebrating the release of STRIDE, his 8th collection of poetry, at these venues worldwide:

MAUI HI  TBD
PORTLAND OR   10/17
Derby Kenton
COLUMBUS OH  10/21
Secret Studio
ATHENS OH  10/22
Donkey Coffee
HOSTILE CITY USA  10/25
Cavanaugh’s Headhouse Square
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Word Count =  280

Jim Trainer is a poet, publisher, writer and performer.  He blogs weekly at Going For the Throat and writes a monthly column for Into The Void magazine.  As a proponent of personal journalism Trainer reports on the inner life while writing about recovery, mental health and the creative process.  Trainer publishes one letterpressed and perfectly bound-by-hand collection of poetry, and sometimes prose, every year through Yellow Lark PressSTRIDE will be his 8th.  Trainer is the progenitor of Stand Up Tragedy™ and performs regularly throughout the world.

Jim Trainer

512-203-6288

jamesmichaeltrainer@gmail.com

PHOTOS
-attached to email
WRITING SAMPLE

-pasted below 
RECURRENT, a poem

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JESUSFUCKINGCHRIST

In Uncategorized on September 12, 2021 at 6:06 am

OHIO AND BUST: Small Trouble For A Small Town…TOUR TIL DEATH: Standup Tragedian Jim Trainer Recoups Credit Card Debt On The Road…GIRL TROUBLE: Is There Any Other Kind?…GETTING BY IN THE END OF TIMES, Kind Of Digging This Global Warming Thing…4 PLANES AND EIGHT AND A HALF TRILLION DOLLARS LATER: Jim Trainer Memorializes 911 By Throwing Radio Into The Court…INTRODUCING OATMILK&COLD INSTANT: Trainer Debuts New Column Aplomb With Destittuion&Romance…LOVE&HATE, WHAT ELSE: The End Is The Beginning of the Work Week for Personal Journalist Jim Trainer

“What do I know? I’m an aging punkrocker with an anger solution, and I go down before the sun most days. Days ‘off’ I come down with imminent adrenal-failure after fighting for a living in Trump’s America. Bosses and girlfriends and X-bosses and wannabe girlfriends. Dudes, I gotta say it, are just dudes—easy to spot and avoidable, if you’re quick, like a bunny. I was born in the Year of the Rabbit and those born under this most auspicious sign are wont to flee and built for it. Don’t too wise though, as those same pistons propelling the woodcat forward will knock your dick in the dirt should you get ‘im on his back.”
Follow Jim Trainer on Patreon for personal journalism, poetry and music.

Well, the night does funny things inside a man
these old tomcat feelings you don’t understand…

—Tom Waits

4:44A.M.
Good morning. There isn’t a better way to address you in these wee, wee hours and anyway you probably don’t want to be addressed at all. It’s early. I’m up before the sun most days, sometimes just after midnight. The mind flares and the body tends to the flame. The anxieties of the Anthropocene, coupled with heartbreak, dealing with the rich and fending off fruity groupies has exhausted me to the point of depletion. I’ll come around but last week was a bust and found me at the bottom of an adrenaline dump, and dysfunctioned, from keeping my cool under uncanny duress. It’s work staying at peace and it’s work being at war. Choose wisely. The righteous and the wicked have been marked down but I’m up early, smoking and drinking cold instant and going over the list. Figured I’d post you, let you know I’m alright, that I’m getting by in the end of times and even feeling frisky on this dark morning of 6,928 of sustainable living we have left. I’m wont to drop this wisdom here what else like a tomcat dropping a rabbit at your feet. Which, if not the leit motif then was certainly the reason for writing Part 1 of Oatmilk&Cold Instant last week. I wanted to pay homage to tomcats and Papa and because writing is the next best way to spend my time. The first is of course being wrapped up in you, but, you’re hesitant, and that’s fine.

Part 1 of my new weekly is for Cholo Proud Boy Siamese and all those street-fighting Bodhisattvas out there and all around us. They’re always there and they need us to pray for them. Not just cats but the living and the dead. We pray for those who’ve gone before. We pray for those now here and we pray for those who are yet to come. When they pray we’ll hear them from our great beyond, and though my boons are great and worries many, I’ve a full faith in all that is to come. We’ll see the enemy driven before us, mad with illusion and drunk on violence. I am not afraid. When you’ve lived month to month for over 30 years, death is almost welcome and accepted at least to get on with your morning and crank it out. Get the words down and drink cold water. Hit the streets stoned—bound to love and ready to fight. It’s the body politic summer and I want to see you on the streets motherfucker. If you’re in the rust belt or on the east coast chances are you can see me. I’ll be out there, telling it and playing guitar some. I do it because I love it and because I’ve no recourse for my blues except to transmute and make use of them or die. Pain doesn’t matter. Neither their lies. We’ll take all kinds & comers into our robotically-farmed eco village at world’s end. Except for the deniers, who we both know are dead already. I’ll have to come around on praying for them.

Nam Myo Ho Renge Kyo! See you on the road motherfucker.

TRAINER
AUSTIN TX

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THE COARSE GRIND IS DEAD

SHAKIN’ IT, BOSS

In Uncategorized on August 27, 2021 at 7:10 am

YOU’RE LIVING ALL OVER ME, SHAKEY BUTTS & BODY NAZIS AND THE LIFESTYLE WAR OF THE NOVEAU RICHE…SEX IN THE AFTERNOON—WHAT ELSE?…ALL MY HEROES DON’T KILL PEOPLE, SAINT MIKE RIDES AGAIN…”Kids don’t vote,” FAILING SOCIETY AND SECURING A VOTING BLOCK IN THE SHARPS-BIN OF AMERICA…HOW MUCH FOR THAT BABY PENIS IN THE WINDOW?….PUNK’S NOT DEAD IT JUST SUCKS NOW, ANTI-VAXXERS & THE RED BANNER OF NEW YORK HARDCORE

“20oz. of pink, sugar-flavored water ain’t the best but neither were gummed Xanies and white-label rye after blowing it out on South Philly mornings in the Year of the Cock.”
SHAKIN’ IT, BOSS

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THE COARSE GRIND IS DEAD

DEATH WISDOM OF THE AGES

In Uncategorized on August 20, 2021 at 11:02 am

COMING AT JESUS, BUMMING SMOKES IN PARADISE…BLACK HELICOPTERS&THRIFT STORE BETTIES AT DAWN…HOLY WAR IN THE LAND OF FIRE, IT’S THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT AND I DON’T FEEL FINE…THE MAGGOT TURNS, GOVERNOR GREG ABBOTT IMMUNO-COMPROMISED & SPIRITUALLY CRIPPLED…FOREVER OR 8.5 TRILLION…THE PIGGY IS NOT FORGIVEN, SAINT MIKE NAILS KARL ROVE TO THE CROSS

“Social media is a contradiction in terms,” she said, blowing my mind with her cool blue tone.
“You’re interesting,” I tell her and cough. The afternoon sun was on me, I had 2 in the can and 1 up on Patreon.  I had time.  She didn’t but she humors me and I like to make her laugh.
“Is it so hard to imagine that creatives could make it on Patreon in the Final Century?” 
“Nope,” she quipped.  “And it suits your sensitivities.” 
A way with words, this one.  And everything else.
“True enough, peach.  I just feel connected there, like a DJ, like A COLUMNIST.” 
Yelling blew me out, I hacked in short sharp rasps.  I told her to come over and hung up the phone.  She didn’t so I got up. Closed the glass doors. Drank my water.  Took my pills and headed down Castle Hill for a dark.


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THE COARSE GRIND IS DEAD

I GO OUT WALKING

In Uncategorized on August 13, 2021 at 11:57 am

BLACK DREADS IN THE FLOWERING PLUM, KRISTEN ALLIS URFFER WAGES WAR ON THE AQUIFER…SO LONG NEW IBERIA, BETWEEN A CRIME SYNDICATE AND A FIRE SALE, BROTHER JAMES FEELS THE SQUEEZE IN PASCAGOULA…MR. WORST-CASE SCENARIO STRIKES AGAIN, BUMMER AFTER BUMMER FOR PERSONAL JOURNALIST JIM TRAINER WHILE HAVING SEX AT DAWN….BRAIN-DAMAGED IN HOSTILE CITY, SORDID PR ON THE RIVERFRONT…….TONY DANZA GOES TO STOCKHOLM…TELEPHONE CALL FROM HELL, THE REVEREND CALLS FROM THE ‘666

These are my headlines. The personal is the political. Heard from Breann, back home. Says being connected gives her great anxiety in a Facebook message early this morn. Phoebes is worried, like a good Jewish mother and fierce mama bear. Little Sister’s sloughing it out in Woodstown. She got a funky garden and works in it with her boyfriend. Big Sis is holding it down at my Dad’s old place, tanning in a pool bistro with 3 dogs and a cat. Life is good but it’s ending. Nothing’s really changed. Except that I’ve surrendered all control and reach out through the medium to connect with you.

Patreon feels like radio did in the aughts. I know you’re out there. Trade-tiers are the new currency, especially as I can only make what I report to the state. What’s your heart in? And how much does it cost. Mine’s poetry, Jack, and the written word. I like paper and columns of text thereon. Let’s make a deal. The real purchase is your heart ain’t it. All we have is each other. Why don’t we celebrate that, while we can, kick against the pricks with kvelling intimacy and love tough as dirt. If you don’t know I love you. Unless you’re my enemy then fuck you and anyway I’ll see you on the streets motherfucker.

When your days consist of buying cigarettes and making copies you’ve got to get creative.  Drop into yourself.  Let things be poetic.  That’s not so easy.  Everything might be suspect in the Final Century but I hope that everything’s not a sign.  The news doesn’t help.  Not for the panic or if you’re looking for a sign.  The way this media wollops us, feeds into us, minute-by-minute isn’t good homie.  Not the artificial light and not the snap and pat stories of everything being great on the idiot channels or everything-not-being-great-in-a-passive-way on NPR.  But poetry, yeah…it’s not so easy walking around with your skull-cap pulled back from raw years bent over a mechanical, banging it out and letting it roll.  The worlds within.  Whoa.  And when you peek your head out.  Go to Staples or something the obviousness of things takes on a sparkling resonance.  The story of the street is a song and your whole body is humming along with Martin down on Congress bald and lean, Alex behind the counter on 6th with sass and a woman seated in a kind of lotus position, on the corner at the crosswalk of 10th&Lamar.  A tide of brown cresting up her tee-shirt, and ass on ground with her head bent almost all the way into it.  Racked by some howling unheard sadness.  How’s that for poetry motherfucker? 
on Patreon


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THE COARSE GRIND IS DEAD

WHAT A WONDERFUL POST-TRAUMATIC WORLD

In Uncategorized on August 6, 2021 at 10:18 am


We’re living in a post-traumatic world.  Lucky for me I came preloaded with the stuff and PTSD is just another day in paradise.  I’m a professional writer, whether or I get paid or not, which I don’t.  I’d like to impress upon you however that I’ma need help breaking through.  Flame-wars and glad handing and stirring up the shit aren’t bad ways to spend your time but they’re ancillary to what I must do before I die.  Meet me on Patreon and we can talk about it.  All my personal journalism is up there these days.  And readings.  And songs and poems and what’s wrong with you?  Is it so hard to comprehend that this is just how Artists make it in the Final Century?  It’s not financial for me but a question of value.  Country simple I wanna know you’re reading me and that you want to be there
—Jim Trainer writing on Patreon

How’s your epoch? I’m non-plussed and determined, stalking the pre-dawn like a senior citizen when all the stores are closed and I won’t have to see their faces. I’m writing again, and for an audience, and that’s the difference. My reprieve from posting here had less to do with you and more to do with my own health, and then feeling like I was yelling into the void besides. I know you’re reading me and without you I probably wouldn’t write at all. But I need some kind of connection to you. Some accountability on both ends. Your support is my fuel, and I’m asking for more, as I can finally rally for the longhaul. Used to be I was running for the money and the flesh and as long as I got it down I could go into work the next morning. I’ma need more now. On one hand you’ll be supporting me on Patreon and on the other you’ll be getting an incredible amount of content, unfiltered and unmined and safe from the eyes of peccaries and nonchalants who have roundly damned and doomed us with their ambivalence on fascism 600,000 dead. I love you. 


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and enjoy
5 SONGS
3 READINGS
8 LIVE PROSE READINGS
9 MISSIVES LIKE THIS ONE
18 PROSE PIECES
19 LIVE POEM READINGS
3 LETTERS
&
26 POEMS

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THE COARSE GRIND IS DEAD

Is That All There Is?

In Uncategorized on July 22, 2021 at 10:07 am

by D.Lori


I made a recent pilgrimage to my hometown library whereat 14, 15, 16, I sat and read much of Helter Skelter and all of The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test to escape a crazy home life. 

Where I was graciously un-regarded by librarians and families even in all my visible angst and ire.  It was a good and quiet place that lives in my memory as a haven.  The annual fair happened to be in full swing so I got to walk around that hot hay-covered field and visit my child and teenage ghosts. The smell of the field and the fried food baking in the summer sun gut-punched me into nostalgia.  

I tooled around visiting my three public schools and the strip mall that once contained a Kmart where I used to buy cassettes.  Past the woods I slipped into to smoke cigarettes.  I drove by my childhood home sold years ago and made to look like a place people would actually want to live.  They put up a goddamn white picket fence.  I wonder what it took to get the smell of cigarettes and alcoholism out of the wood paneling.

You know that song made famous by Peggy Lee: Is That All There Is?  That eerie tune about what looms large in the imagination but in reality lays flat like those blow-up Christmas characters that get unplugged on suburban lawns during the day?  Is that all there is to the places I roamed during a torturous youth?  To the home I was kicked out of by a crazy mother?  

If that’s all there is my friends then let’s keep dancing 

In the Saturday morning sunshine it all appears so beige.  Not harmless but distant.  

Let’s break out the booze and have a ball

If that’s all there is   

Irvin Yalom, the brilliant existential therapist, said, “Sometimes I simply remind patients that sooner or later they will have to relinquish the goal of having a better past.”  We can’t magical thinking our way into having been loved and supported properly, and clinging to some notion of it is poison.  A visit to the hometown was not to see something there that made it all ok.  It was to pay last respects.  To go and look around and think is that all there is?  To know that the holding of trauma and depression has been an inside job.    

I am recently unmoored after taking a pause from a career I spent nearly twenty years on because I just couldn’t see how it made sense anymore.  I was a therapist.  Am I a therapist? My biggest piece of wisdom from those two decades is that you’re probably fine.  You’re on a heated-up planet being cooked by zealots and idiots through economic/environmental crisis and allegiance to blowhards and ancient ideals.  You are  confronting funhouse mirrors through the internet where trolls wait to steal your sunshine by assuring you that your body is wrong, your thoughts are wrong and you should just die.  You are not the originator of your dis-ease. Engaging the world is like being in a mosh pit getting slammed into by opinions, critiques, and hot takes.  The intensity, reposts, and popularity read as legitimacy.  But that’s just the feeling that comes from being worn down by repetition. 

Now I am looking for the fucking ground.  Literally throwing myself out into the climate-changed swelter in an East Coast summer to walk around and look at the city up close.  Even if I’m walking in a circle, movement feels like something.  

“You can’t let the critic win,” Jim Trainer says to me on the phone. 

It’s weeks after that hometown trip and I’m walking through the city and the pressure of July humidity. It’s preferable to the burden of judgment.  I was talking to him about the culture of the dissenting opinion and how tired I am of it.  I’d love to believe that comments fired off in the dark or from the mouths of pundits do not accurately represent people but I’m not that naïve.  They are out there—the self-appointed gatekeepers making rules about who can cry, who can complain, who can just be as they are.  And I can’t help but want to understand.  The basis of my career as a therapist has been empathy.  And I’ve found it for people who dressed me down, for people who murdered, for people so deep in delusion that they think my esotropia is the work of the devil.  It’s a strong muscle and my default. 

But having empathy for the wide swath of fascists, trolls and misanthropes only weighs on me. You can’t let the critic win.  You can’t surrender your energy and serenity. So the fight from my side looks like this:

Typing away to do some writing that means something to me.  

Sharing my music after composing in private for three decades.  

Cultivating inner spontaneous joy for my own being and crafting a shield forged from Fuck Yous. I’m probably fine.  I’m just living in a world that’s hard to recognize.   Not harmless but distant. 

D. Lori is writing through a personal interregnum at Gurus Should Find Honest Work, a collection of essays inspired by the peculiarity of the American workplace and way of life.   

THE ONLY ONE AS WEIRD AS ME

In Uncategorized on July 15, 2021 at 10:25 am

If all isn’t well at the end of the world at least it’s the end.
GETTING BY IN THE END OF TIMES on Patreon

Stories are the basic unit of human consciousness.
Steve Almond

Maybe in the next life,
I’ll be a hero not a criminal…

The Bronx

Demi Jurada wrote me in the summer of ’15 but I didn’t get her letter until I was up on a mountain with no reception and a drinking problem. I solved the drinking problem by not drinking but getting down to why I drank is like peeling an onion full of razor blades and bad memories. I was probably in my cups and definitely in the paint, in a cabin by a lake in North Country when I read her letter. I knew instantly she was a writer. Writers should take you there, or else why read them? Her letter was like a small stair I had to crouch to climb and inside was her wild and peculiar mind. Her letter was the beginning of a long and supportive relationship which is also why I knew she was a writer. Writing and creating art are simply, if not easily, manifestation. She wrote me of her particular isolation and I, in mine, received it. We forged a bond and these years later I’m convinced she’s the only one as weird as me.

Her blog is plain-spoken and singular. She’s got the best voice and let’s face it, voice does most of the heavy lifting in writing. Rhythm’s just as important and she’s got it, a kind of janky illogic that feels comfortable, if not right. Calling it, what it is or otherwise, makes for great writing, sure, but if you’re calling it I’ll be pulling up a chair. The world needs more stories and certainly different ones than the one they’re selling—and I need your blood. It’s how I make it through the day, sober and in turns horny and mad, destitute and proud of the life I chose doing the same and calling it in my own way. If you tell it, they will hear but the truth is by the time I’ve told it I’ve got the Bose cranked and staring out the glass doors with a decaf Americano imagining the blower man defeated by The Bronx at volume 10. Another great friend of mine told me you keep choosing what you want and everything else will just fall away. Fall away it did, Reader. I’m barefoot in ripped jeans, listening to post rock. I’m a writer who spends most of his time putting off writing, which is perhaps the easiest way to spot a writer. I read only what doesn’t offend me, and so much does. It only takes 3 words for me to know I’m in and I’m in on Demi, pilgrim, all the way. She’ll be guest-posting here and Your Writer’ll find some ink on her wonderful Gurus Should Find Honest Work. We write to get it out and feel better and because it’s what we do. You read and we come together and isn’t that nice?

See you at Gurus, motherfucker.

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THE COARSE GRIND IS DEAD

LIVING IN THE BLACK&WHITE

In Uncategorized on May 28, 2021 at 11:32 am

I went walking into the city dusk.  I had Gun In Mouth Blues on at cilia-frying levels and kept my phones on while stalking angrily through the Whole Foods Industrial Complex.  The fine bodies and smooth skin, shirtless bros in sunglasses, yoga pants and dogs fed my alienation.  I need to be careful with this anger.  It’s good for the pain but numbs everything else.  I face a solitude I never earned.  Anger’s just the cheapest way to get there.  It’s easier to be alone if you act like you hate everyone. I come to the temple of this room, redoubled even in failure knowing the cost of my anger is a price I can no longer pay.
on Patreon

Did you catch Matt Borczon yesterday? How about your homeboy this month? I’m hard at work on STRIDE, my seventh full-length collection of poetry and it’s a dark one. Every book has been a spell and this one is no exception. I suppose in hoping to soar you’ve got to grovel first and anyway live down the generations’ karma of bad love and war. Patrons at the $10 level will get a signed and acknowledged copy of STRIDE and Patrons at the $5 level get all the access. Poems and songs, readings and missives like the one selected above are all yours for supporting your long-suffering romantic nihilist, Jim Trainer.

Fight war not wars.
—CRASS

PART 39 OF THE COARSE GRIND GOES LIVE THIS SUNDAY AT INTO THE VOID

KEEP BLEEDING IN THE ANNO FINEM is almost sold out! Get your copy here and watch the reading and its release here and here

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RETIREMENT BLUES

In Uncategorized on May 10, 2021 at 1:52 pm

THE FOLLOWING POST WAS WRITTEN BETWEEN MONDAY MAY 3 AND FRIDAY MAY 7, 2020

SOCIAL MEDIA IS SHIT…TRAINER SEEKING HEALTHCARE…TRICKS OF THE TRADE, ADVICE FOR SUFFERING COLITIS AND LEARNING HOW TO TRUST A FART…JOIN JIM TRAINER ON PATREON FOR THE REAL REAL

If a man doesn’t work he doesn’t eat. Not me saying that in the bible.
Sheldon B. Lamey

Fucked. Forgive me if I dispense with the pleasantries. No need, right? We know each other. No need to go any further with Sheldon, either. He’s just as fucked but on a whole other level.  HEY YOU SITTING AT HOME TOO MANY PLACES HIRING FOR YOU TO STILL BE COLLECTING UNEMPLOYMENT, he posts, as the human race greasily slides down an evolutionary link. I don’t know how we became friends on the socials but we’re not anymore! Unfriending him was the healthiest choice and one of many I am making today. Waking up fucked in America. 

I called Community Care but they only see refugees. Lone Star Circle of Care can’t see me until June 29th. I got my blood work and treatment notes from Austin Gastro this morning. Signed up on the patent portal. My next round of calls will be to find a specialist who works with low-income patients. Otherwise I’ll have to file my taxes and go the Affordable Care route. All of my efforts hinge on my last phone call of the morning to the Texas Workforce Commission to see how much longer I can stay on unemployment. Fucked…


More and more this site is becoming what I always wanted for my work—a large and private audience and anyway a direct line to you.  I don’t get the same charge blogging as I did in earlier days of the Final Century, when you could make it here, when comedy made you laugh and your dick still functioned.
on Patreon this week

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Tuesday was an off day and I didn’t get much done. I successfully avoided doing my taxes, if inactivity counts for anything but I’d imagine Monica “Don’t fuck around.” Clark isn’t pleased. I talked with sustainability impresario and all-around Good Witch Melissa “Mesa” Materese though, and she worked wonders by offering simple connection and laughter. Also:

  • probiotics, broken up and dissolved in coconut water, switching between brands and strengths
  • kefir, in coconut water (non-dairy), feed the kefir to stretch it out as it’s a culture that will grow on its own
  • mesalamine in a flare, give it a try for 3 days, if doesn’t work try a couple more
  • ginger+tumeric, turmeric in everything but it needs something like ginger that’s heating
  • chia seeds, chia pudding made from soaking the seeds overnight
  • water, 1/2 your weight in oz. a day, with ginger+turmeric root throughout the day, chew the softened root at the end of the day or add it to dinner
  • Collagen, builds up the cellar lining of the intestine
  • peppermint oil, rubbed on belly in a counter-clockwise direction and on the soles of the feet
  • Do I have Candida?
  • Go outside, get out from 4 walls and breathe

Join me on Patreon for the whole story and more on the hopeless condition of Jim Trainer, and enjoy query letters, unpublished work and live poetry readings. I get a charge posting there, same’s I did here over 10 years ago, crunching triple-nickels on the roof of a dead Confederate palace in the triple-digit heat. Those were the days.  Here’s a sonnet from the brilliant Wanda Coleman and a charmer from Irish legend Steve DenehanKEEP BLEEDING IN THE ANNO FINEM is almost sold out! Get your copy here and watch the reading and its release here and here. Thank you for reading. Thank you for believing in me.

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KEEP BLEEDING IN THE ANNO FINEM:
10 Years At Going For The Throat
NOW 
AVAILABLE AT JIMTRAINER.NET

READ THE COARSE GRIND AT INTO THE VOID