(not quite) a literary journal



from Love&Wages

so’s an 11-hour assembly shift
even with
2 15s and a half for lunch
so’s marriage and the USGOV
the maddening and bureaucratic 
the end of a police billyclub
so’s being poor, being second class
being anything other than the top 2
percent and the aristocracy who
keep it that way
so’s invasion and suicide bombing
so’s loving the dysfunctioned—
which could be anyone
who’s seen what it means to be
anything in this world—
of all these
and in fact
despite of
all of these
creation is the hardest
the most unsound
completely unreasonable
not rational
to create is to trowel
clods of hard earth aside
reach up and out
from all the dross of history
break through the subterfuge
yell down through the centuries
call out and be counted, bear witness
and from the darkest mine shine.

from Love&Wages

this morning I want you palpably,
it runs from my gut followed by a rush of blood
I open the front door and a strong spring wind
has cleared the path of palms wrecked
in the rain that fell hot and fast this morning
I woke with the storm, in the lee hours
and felt the curve of you, deep in the crease
of my hips and deeper, that’s what this ease
of connection is, like a magic you’re here
a quick conjuring, I remember our every 
conversation had with the whole body, the 
intellectual sensuality, our whole heart in our palms 
locked like two faces, over the
cool oasis of linen between us on
hot windy mornings like this one, that woke me 
...and restarted this, fevering
there are paths that cut steeply and give rise
on Wheeling where we kissed and brushed red
dirt under giant Sequoias sighing, you
can see the Golden Gate like you’re looking
at the end of the civilized world, the ocean
drops off into the wild, an expanse of self
I’d never felt before, and is stuck in where
my rib used to be, this sliver of you
gone but not gone, a hard laugh that softens
tears that widen and soak wet the corners
you’re in the ether, Gemini, quick Mercury, the 
vitreous of me, never touching down
a vapor a visage, you passed through but left
fine residue, the soft tissue of me tinged with you 
my borders open the stretches of me wildly 
overgrown and thriving in bloom

Tip Jar

Singer-songwriter, journalist, and curator of Going For The Throat—a weekly publication of cynicism, outrage, correspondence and romance. Jim Trainer publishes one collection of poetry and prose every year through Yellow Lark Press. Love&Wages is his 5th.  Please visit jimtrainer.net for his collections and for music, film and appearances.

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poetry, Jim TrainerSybil Journal