Jim Trainer

Posts Tagged ‘love’

like a moth in the rain

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

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

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

20 planes they leave the runway every day

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


In poem, Poetry, Uncategorized on May 18, 2016 at 11:49 pm

their end has made
the seasons indelible
death consumates
our love lasting and regal



In TOUR, travel on July 14, 2015 at 1:11 pm

As a tourdriver I’ve been to every state in the lower 48 barring South Dakota.  I’ve been clear across Canada in the middle of Febuary in a 30′ RV hauling a single axel trailer.  I’ve gotten up close and personal to the people out on the road and that’s not always a good thing (Indiana).  And, late in the afternoon on a brisk day on Victoria Island, I envisioned a future for myself in Austin, while smoking Duvalier’s and reading Chronicles in my room at the St. James.  I’ve travelled with some real pieces of work-I’ve been on tour with 5 seperate dudes with 5 seperate drug addictions.  I’ve come to the conclusion that the best way to see America is with Europeans. Norweigians to be specific, and you’d be hard pressed to find a more eqipped or better oiled machine than Satan’s Roadcrew (on the road with 1349 in 2008/9).  Those boys are doing work and I don’t think I’ve ever heard a single complaint from any of them over the couple hundred days being on the road together.  Those tours are very special to me.  And ironically some of the hardest.  Nothing beats working together especially when times is tough out there and laughter, shit the laughter-it’s all you remember after you’ve been through the fire with your comrades.

When you’ve done 32 cities in 35 days, a couple thousand miles seems like a dream.  A cake walk.  Ah but don’t too wise.  The road can bring out the worst in people.  And it’s all about how you roll, brother.  Will you crack?  And if so, it’s ok, but will you be able to put the pieces back together, get back on hitch and keep rolling down the highway until the road runs out or the wheels fall off?
I’ve seen some beautiful women on the road.  And I’ve had more than one relationship ruined by the road.  It’s a hard gig, takes allot out of you and the ones you love.  And if you’re petty or controlling (a Virgo) you won’t be able to handle your partner being away for so long and in so many cities and backstage areas with groupies and porn stars.  The truth is I never saw much of that, barring L.A., and the fact is-when the real shit was going down I was horizontal in the RV with the doors locked, dreaming my Benadryl dreams until sometime after 2 when the roads are clear and the cops don’t care and you can really jam it to Worcester or Orangevale.  It wasn’t very glamorous for me out there. At all.  Matter of fact all I did for long stretches of time was sleep and drive.  But I believed in it.  The Work. I believe in black metal and the Work of 1349 and as such I let it become my life for awhile.  I wonder if I could ever go back to that life.  There’s a thought.  Ah but I was so much older then.

Truth is I’m kind of bummed we’re leaving.  I’m really getting the hang of being a writer and my days are filled with the Work.  I’ve sent out over 20 letters in the last 2 weeks and when I’m not writing poetry I’ve got it on my mind.
Just this morning in fact, I got an idea for the new book.  It involves several cities, actually, and maybe it’s because we’re leaving tomorrow and I’ve got the road on my mind.  Yes and of course it all comes back to me…busted and lumbering back from Amarillo, rejected by a Christ Church woman, stopping in Houston for an ill-advised trip down memory lane, through West Virginia where I’ve been the happiest in love, up in the North Country, all alone on a mountain top wondering how I went wrong and why, when I think about love, all I think about are clay pigeons up on a wire and shooting ’em down.  One by one.  And as I was conceiving the idea a single butterfly lit down on the Pride of Barbados out there and I realized something about love.  Maybe I need to work on myself.  Maybe I need to be alone.  Single.  I guess the point is that I am.
Do your work.  Stand in the world like it’s your truth.  People come and go.  You know the price. You know the deal. A butterfly lights down, from out of nowhere, from out of the noise and ruckus and smells and whistles of construction crews building towers of greed into the blue lazy Texas sky.  And here she comes, too.  In gold and white laced pumps, her tawny brown legs and arms hazing a long lazy S swaying in the heat coming up the street-the prime mover of the universe.  She is why, Brother.  She is why the everything.  She is why I get to live this life and slum it here in Paradise.  She is creation.  It’s her world.  Keep your war.  I’m hitting the road.

Sweethearts sat in the dark and sparked,
they hugged and kissed in that dusty old dark.
They sighed and cried, hugged and kissed,
instead of marriage, they talked like this:
“Honey…so long it’s been good to know ya’! “

-Woody Guthrie
July 14, 1912-October 3, 1967

See you on the mountain motherfucker.

Jim Trainer
Satan’s Roadcrew
Austin, TX


In Broken Heart, Jim Trainer, National Poetry Month, poem, Poetry on April 15, 2015 at 3:25 pm

I was slogging through the wet months
salty, cashed, despondent, blue
I wore out all my friends
probably took years off my life
I really regretted not believing in God
it was a hard, hard time
getting over her
I’m not even sure it was her I was getting over
but that maybe I had some catching up to do
I’d been loving on the run for over a decade
when I met her
I was a player, a night mover, a Don Juan
when she broke it off with me
it was like a an avalanche of faces
a parade of attrition
I had to say goodbye, really say goodbye
to all the women I laid with
I had to look back at the years
&ruefully account for all those
young&open hearts
all the love I threw away and wasted
when I thought I was a man.

matador blues

In Being A Poet, Being A Writer, Poetry, poetry submission, Writing on February 12, 2015 at 12:16 pm

my capes must’ve dulled-
they no longer flash
or catch the high sun
and the young señoritas
don’t know the dignity
of my final bow,
they only look on
as he enters
so foolish&young.
Does he know
that these hot afternoons
in the prime of his life
will never be as beautiful
as all the muscle
&grace that
he must put to the sword
to win their love?
And that even their love
is vain and cruel and
covetous only
of youth&death?

perhaps he will-
if he doesn’t die first.

This Fall

In Jim Trainer, National Poetry Month, Poetry on April 14, 2014 at 5:12 pm

just as the shadows crept out
like they could
forget about the sun
we put on our masks
and did the dance
forgetting the heart’s seasons
like it could be summer
true love happened and
it found you out
but you settled
for an escape
in the gold-mining towns
you’ll grow restless
I know
you’ll find how shallow
those sunny pools
of L.A.
can be
and I’ll hold
the sea inside me
I’ll relish the salt and the wind
I’ll keep these roses
I’ll never send
and light a dead altar for the living
for your alarms I’ll hold
a silence
and the chatter will break
around your pretty face
but I won’t be at the party
I won’t
drink alone or
I won’t
put on a new disguise
I’ll take
the old
dusty bright flag
and make a fine sail
wait and want for
no bright desperate flower
in the desert of my love for you.

by Jim Trainer


Xmas in Texas

In Broken Heart, Jim Trainer on December 29, 2013 at 6:43 pm



In Uncategorized on December 19, 2013 at 3:02 pm

rode up to Hillside met her
with the twinkling warm lights
of South Austin below
we drank heady red wine(s)
and stole out to the terrace to smoke
in the cold night.
it’d been
almost 9 months for her
and he sent her a text just that
“it isn’t good news…” she said
to hear from him
on her first Thanksgiving without him
in 6 years
it wasn’t good news but truth
that snapped her out of her
“silly, hopeful stupor”.
what she had been waiting for
had finally came
but it didn’t make her happy, though.
even if he changed his mind
and had something different to say
it didn’t matter
what his text told her
what it really said to her
was that she was holding on
and waiting for it-for
him to come around
and when he finally did reach out
she knew it was really all too late
“what I found out,” she starts slowly
holding back the tears
“is that I’ve been holding on
and that I can’t hold on to nothing
we went to bed early, around 10
and we lay in her bed
unromantic but
two bodies pressed into each other
sweetly, softly
breathing together
holding on
to each other.


Splendid Isolation

In Uncategorized on April 16, 2013 at 1:17 pm

I was in the garden hosing the Neapolitans when she yelled down to me from the fire escape.
False flags, she shrieked, 2 dead! And 3 bombs!
I looked up into the white oak.  He likes the dark ones fucker.  One peep outta him and he was done.  I had my finger on the trigger.
Ok, I say, and aim my gun at the rainbow Kale.  Fire.

I don’t do news.  I don’t care about the world.  This is just another post from a horny hapless journalist who spends most of his time stanchioned up in the high rooms of a dead confederate palace drinking with a hardon and a hashpipe. The concerns of my days here in Paradise are few.  There’s these precious words and there is the countdown to Maduro time.  Aho.  At this late stage of the game a cigar and a 6pack is all that gets an old pervert like me through the day.  I also have an unconscious devotion to tomatoes.  And a woman.

My heart goes out to those who find they’ll be missing someone for the rest of their lives.  But I’ve got to turn away from the pedantic punditry&big business of news reporting and the battle cries of  armchair revolutionaries and the bleeding hearts of an Army of loud&well-wishing  Americans.  I got little time for jibba-jabba and the news makes me dull.  My time is running down and I’m busy keeping my loved ones close b/c I know I’ll be missing them for the rest of my life when they go.

The door slammed shut behind her and it startled him.
Aho.  Morning fuckface.
The hot sun was climbing.  Fuck it.  I decided to take it up to the Office, try and get some work done.
Rejoice, I say, you live another day.
I’ll see you tomorrow motherfucker.