Jim Trainer

Posts Tagged ‘West Philly’

More Confessions of a Jerkoff

In Being A Writer, Being An Artist, Buddhism, depression, employment, Jim Trainer, mental health, self-help, Writing, writing about writing, WRITING PROCESS on November 9, 2017 at 7:51 am

Crude admissions ahead. I could say the same every week ain’t it though. Every week I’m under the gun and deadlines advance the killing hand. I’m also trying to wrangle some gnarly bad blues on here, and put down a rapacious anxiety–you know, I’m going for its throat, and so, I  don’t have the luxury of apology or explanation. Nor should there be any, in Art. FOR MADMEN ONLY, like the sign says, and if there’s ever a place to dispense with pretension, get to the point and lay it on the fucking line, it is in the Arts. You should never waste anyone’s time. It’s on par with murder when you consider that all that our lives are is time. You take my time, you take my life and if you attempt either I’ll weed you out motherfucker. Go ahead and try me but I’ve got readers around the world and we’ll find you and X you out! Forgive me, got a little carried away there. Happy Tuesday and all such happy horseshit. I’m a working man and I’ve got to get these words down today and not on my usual Thursday because this Thursday I’m heading back into the building and working a 15-hour day filling orders. It ought to pad things out a little–make it less do or die while I’m delivering corporate lunches and running into the night with whatever fits into my blue hotbag.

Delivery ain’t a bad gig, the money’s horrible but I’ve no coworkers. Trust me, no matter what kind of shitshuck or haul you’re pulling–it’s the crew you’re running with that’ll make or break you. I was the foreman of black and Puerto Rican men from North Philly almost twice my age, filling dumpsters with pitch at the end of the American Century, and as ball busting as that was, it’s heaps better than standing around the kitchen of the Chase Center and missing every single pop culture reference my university going coworker choads futilely threw at me. I was just digging out an old house a couple weeks ago in North Philly, and painting for Christ, which I abhor, but it was with my Brother Tau, someone I share a deep connection with. We did what we had to and then we went home. We laughed a lot but our chemistry was instantly thrown off every time a homeowner or boss chimed in. You’re only as good as the company you keep ain’t it though. Well, I am my People.  My people are the blood that flows through me.  My people are diamonds in the dark.  Point is–wait a second here, what happened to my point?

Ah…my point was that without a deadline, without having to write this and nail it to the fucking wall by day’s end, I’m free to roam and ramble, as it were, get lost in Hostile City reverie and take shots at the squares and all too conveniently forget my warning, forget I was about to admit to crude and unsavory things. Far be it from me to back down in writing, although I will settle and euphemize. Ha. Not a chance. What I began this post warning you about was admitting that my upper arms are sore from jerking off. I’m only embarrassed for the women in my family reading this–if you are, I apologize, but, I’m shooting pool fat man.  Maybe I’m lonely. Definitely horny.  Certainly a misanthrope.  It’s probably painfully obvious that a horny misanthrope masturbates. Ain’t it though. Perhaps finding another misanthrope to spend time with could figure the problem out. I know plenty of women of like mind. A startingly high percentage of misanthropes are only exhausted empaths. People who feel too much tend to shy themselves of the parade. Anyone who’s ever felt the world this way should do wise and spend some time in the great Alone. Solitude is the ally, just ask Uncle Hank, but isolation is the killer.  Feeling isolated around them, ain’t it though, it can be twice-fucked when you realize it kills your time (and your life!) and your needs aren’t getting met so it’s also burning your emotional bandwidth. This can lead to exhaustion and depression and is why I can, with a straight face, look you in the eye and tell you–I strive to have compassion for all things living and otherwise, but most people are horrible.

The problem isn’t sex, or lack thereof, or too much arm crippling masturbation.  The problem isn’t being alone, or, at times, being painfully isolated. The problem with me is the problem with you, Brothers&Sisters–and the problem with us all is this blog. I’ve too much time, as crazy as that sounds. Sitting here writing for no reason, with no deadline is a particular kind of madness. I can’t move my arms and neck at the same time while typing this. I hear sirens out in the city and my neighbor is hosing down the side of his aluminum shed. The feeds of outrage are growing on the social networks…WE NEED TO DO SOMETHING NOW…until  things are back to normal and the world can go back to ending without so much as a peep of complaint. It’s totally asinine, fundamentally futile and completely insane to sit here, 883 words in, in my underwear writing about masturbation and day labor. I wouldn’t have it any other way.


In Jim Trainer, National Poetry Month, Philadelphia, poem, Poetry, THIRTY FOR THIRTY CHALLENGE on April 23, 2015 at 6:45 pm


at the height of its roar
that place was like a railroad car
the joint was small, and it shook
in the night,
it rattled the neon
there was
“gin and catatonics”
street poetry&sex
in the ladies’ room
the owners were always
climbing the stairs
threatening Colleen,
if we couldn’t behave
they would shut it right down
which of course we couldn’t
so they did.
I read there, did spoken word
every Sunday night
I was paid in whisky
it was a time and a place
wild, unhinged, idyllic days
at the end of the century.
now it’s called Fiume,
and I hear it’s full of Penn kids
most nights

from All in the wind

Shrieks of Paradise, Correspondence&Rails#7: Brother Kit

In Uncategorized on October 30, 2012 at 12:19 pm

The Ruined Rooms of the High Life
Fox Den
Hippie Town, USA

Kermit Hell Lyman III
The Last Frontier
West Philadelphia, PA 
Aho but you were right Brother Kit.  It is lonely at the top.  Nice we have our women and the spoils of this wreckless celebration we call life.  What else?
Rock&Roll, that’s what else Brother.  It saved us even when we didn’t want saving.  It’s the last grace of these United States.  We could fold it up, croak&crank it to the next and be thankful.  Our work has saved us.  And it has destroyed them.  Aho.  Ain’t nothing wrong with my crown and yours, Brother?  That’s what I thought.  We are Champions.
It all began with the decision to lose first and talk later.  Hostile City embraced our defeatism, if only b/c in her bitch-heart she knew it would be easier to take us this way.  Turns out that defeat wasn’t the worse thing that ever happened to us.  Its made us strong&wise enough to suffer through any series of mindfucks and Schadenfreude.  We know b/c we have lived the Warrior’s life and now the only lasting and final danger is this contentment.
It’s all gravy up on this vista.  T
rouble’s harder to find these days and it makes me miss the devil a little.  But not much.
May You Continue To Be Luckier Than the Lightning.
Brother JT

Made Of What We Lost (an urban Journey through the Chakras) by Maleka Kay Fruean

In Uncategorized on June 4, 2012 at 10:45 am
1) Muladhara (the Root Chakra): 
I remember you climbing up to the upper platform, your hands outstretched, standing silent. You had just lost your father, and there was music all around you, a keg opened, and you stared at everyone, your pain on your skin. I remember how you told me “if you don’t believe in god, then you’re all alone out there in the world” and I remember thinking, what is my foundation?  What do I come home to? We sat in that house with no heat, trying to find our home within ourselves, taking care of animals and men and women and all the while trying to find the warmth, inside blankets or arms, inside the absences. My hair four different colors, with the dark brown roots always showing.

2) Swadhistana (the Sacral Chakra): 
I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain.
– James Baldwin

3) Manipura ( the Solar Plexus Chakra):
Learn how to digest. Take in the news, the belittling speeches by your Ethiopian boss at the bar telling you “you’re not special”, the half-rotten tomatoes that you still eat because there is nothing else in what your friend Diya refers to as your “rainbow kitchen”. It means you’re broke and the gas bill is due and the electricity bill is due and the rent is due and the cat is shitting next to the turquoise baseboards, and you need to learn how to take it all in. Let your gut expand. Go to the first yoga class in your life ($5.00 at the Wise Women’s Center) and come back ready to take out the trash, ready to eat kale and drink fresh water. Let your ribcage open two inches and place your hidden words inside. 

4) Anahata (the Heart Chakra): 
the tattooed mess, the ex-boyfriends, the man who did the chicken dance, the republican cuban, the girl who called me hot box, the emcees, the boy who was afraid to tell his mama about girls, the skateboarder, the film student, “you were nicer when you first moved to this neighborhood”, the musicians, the man who sounded like sublime, “you look hotter than any girl in this west philadelphia party”, the art student, the alcoholics, the sad poet, the married kenyan, the man who read flannery o’connor stories every night, “just look at her, because i think she is the definition of joy”…. love love love love love 

5) Vishuddha (the Throat Chakra): 
One day, while trying to order sandwiches with her not-boyfriend, her throat seized up, and she choked on words. She could not even speak to the man at the deli, couldn’t say the simple phrases “cheese hoagie, please” (because she was exploring the idea of not eating meat), couldn’t even excuse herself. It was there, at that dump of a deli in upper darby that she realized her words were meant for more than this, for more than staying silent during boxing matches and speaking up during parties, for more than asking men if they were going to ever call back, for more than waiting in between the ignorance. He stared at her muteness, and ordered a turkey sandwich for her, while she glared at his ice blue eyes, ready to scratch another tattoo onto his throat, “I am” …. taking a deep breath and listening to the old brag of her heart, “I am, I am, I am…”

6) Ajna (the Third Eye Chakra):
The wooden floors creaked, in late night talks, in intimacy, in insomnia. I think we each knew it would end. 
Because our intuition was blocked with carbon monoxide. 
It was blocked by the noise of the pitbull puppy, chained to the neighbor’s upstairs deck, for three days, crying for food and water. 
It was blocked by our lack of sleep, our abundance of cheap hamburger. 
It was blocked by the smell of sweat, mixed with frustration, a sense of moldy dust, tobacco, and herb creeping into the corners.
It was blocked by what was unsaid.
It was blocked by what was undone.
We are still finishing the chores.

7) Sahasrara (the Crown Chakra): 
I prayed to God that night. I thought I saw a white light, an illumination, through the hole in the floor. 
He said to me, “I’m just waiting to see the light in you.”
It had burned down to nothing for months and months, anchored to loss.

 I left that house with a mission.  I give thanks for everything I lost there.

It’s five dimensions, six senses
Seven firmaments of heaven to hell, eight million stories to tell
Nine planets faithfully keep in orbit
With the probable tenth, the universe expands length
The body of my text possess extra strength
Power-liftin’ powerless up, out of this towerin’ inferno 

-Mos Def