Jim Trainer

Posts Tagged ‘Ebony Stewart’

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 ado 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 my 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,
Trainer

1A1A1AA2-A8BD-4B5E-9B4B-ECCD1A26772A

Advertisements

LIVING BY THE HIGHWAY

In poem, Poetry, travel, travel writing, Writing on May 7, 2016 at 3:46 pm

the crews haven’t stopped beeping
since April 2012
the city is growing, they’re building their towers
into the sky
tearing the John Falk Library down
and spreading boutiques out into the barrio

if you ask me my problems I’ll tell you few
never had many but a great one and now
at 41 the beast is tamed
I drink decaf in my underwear
in the big leather writer’s chair
despite this city’s prostituting
and New California land grabbing
there’s always a high snap to the air
in Texas in the springtime

there’s a road that blows through here
straight to where Blind Lemon was born
through frontiers of desert
and straight off California into the sea
many great men and women have passed through here
finding for a new road
mixing it up with the fates
putting their hands into the wind
eschewing the doom&dredge of a conscripted life
and bucking against parents&teachers&peers
who were doomed

doomed to lose, doomed to resign
doomed to only live and die
it’s why I’m here, at this outpost in the unproud South
in the savage land

now that the Rottweiler of blues
sleeps a little too soundly at the gate
and sprites of my fancy all blew away
into orange canyons of Colorado and
Saint Jack’s blue&grey California
and as the New Century, The America
builds its towers on my back, steamrolls over
graves of the individualist, the true pioneer

I like living close to the highway
I like to think one day
my road’ll jump up and rope me
Woody&McMurtry&James&Stewart
will lure me, the irresistible molt&call
of the proud highway
the good red road
when they come for me I want to be ready
to take the path with a heart.

 

 

Blog From A Room

In Being A Writer, Being An Artist, blogging, Writing on September 8, 2015 at 10:13 pm

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 your enemies in the balls. If you want to change your life, start writing. If you want to save yourself, start writing. The alphabet may have taken the goddess, but through image and motif and with pure visceral screeds we may give her rise, 8 arms and all, and with a necklace made of human skulls. Ok, a bit dark but fuck it. The world likes to put on a happy face. And advertising is big business. A business that has cashed in on our irrefutable desire to want: more, justice, equality, quicker internet, a gluten-free meal, supremacy, world hegemony, a piece of ass or a paycheck. And 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.

Christ. I’ve really gone off the rails eh? Sorry. So much coffee today. And nowhere closer to a release for all my angst. That’s right I’m still putting the band back together. Looking for a rehearsal space for Roq to set up his drums so we can get groovin again. Also immersed in 3 separate texts about self-publishing and am quite in over my head. But that’s ok. That’s how I like it. Too much to do is better than not enough. God knows I’ve spent many a dusk burning down triple-nickels in the record breaking heat waiting for the sun to go down and my bad blues to let me go. I’m on deadline and under a kinghell workload trying to get this rig unwound and become the self-published poet, spoken word artist, speaker on the lecture circuit, journalist/blogger, rock&roller I’ve always wanted to be. And of course I am already all of these things but after talking with O’Sullivan on the horn yesterday and having breakfast with the brilliant Ebony Stewart this morning I’m feeling like Henry Rollins or Bruce Springsteen hell even ol’ Leonard Cohen, singing
first we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin…

Thanks for joining me for this latest edition of “framing the agony”. Getting it down, neat&fine. Transmitting it out across the hungry land and lighting down in your heart good reader. Your readership is my everything. See you on the road motherfucker.
Trainer
Austin, TX
9/4/15