CONFESSIONS OF A ROAD DOG, Dirty & Remorseless Tales From A Life On The Fringe
Personal Journalist Running “From Memphis to LA…” & Working The Hard Dollar Of Confessional Poetry
Knick knack, paddy wack,
they say you’ll hear your own bones crack
When they bend you back to bible black,
then you’ll find your love…
—Warren Zevon
Chemical imbalance or raging intolerance? Irresponsibility, and inability to grow the fuck up, or having the temerity to take to where the work is despite revoked Unemployment Compensation and credit-card debt? Feckless and imponderable questions left for the therapist’s couch and anyway that don’t make a damn to me. 1,850 miles, countless everything bagels and endless black coffee, 2 shows, 20 broadsides and 4 books sold, and, just like that it’s over and I’m back at desk and booking anew. I’ve got 6 markets to hit before ’24, not counting Salt Lake City, Athens and Columbus OH, Baltimore and NYC in late fall.
Touring life is the life for me. I sleep better to the turning wheel and anyway day-to-day living in Squareville bores me to tears. No disrespect to any of you, out there and slaving away, it’s just that I prefer to do it somewhere I won’t see in the morning. Personal journalism is a very hard dollar, and deadly, were I to stick around some of these towns where I share the truth and continue to offer 4-walls-down access to my audience. “Poetry” about old bosses and kissoffs-of-Xs are one thing, but there are far more serious, née sensitive, missives that other poets rightfully keep close to the chest lest they get they whole body chopped off. It wouldn’t be a bad idea for this poet either, if deadline didn’t trump all and I wasn’t on at least 8 of them thangs a month and anyway committed to you, Good Reader, and devoted to giving you—the true-to-life creative nonfiction I share until the wind takes me and I’m gone again.
OATMILK&COLD INSTANT has hit over 40 installments and is available for as low as $5 on Patreon, as well as 2 oft-read live poems per month, a discounted Yoga membership, letters to the editor, book dedications and tour ephemera. Many of those essays will make it to my Substack but the poetry is exclusive to Patrons. Speaking of Substack, for almost-weekly poetry and exclusive essays from a heartbroke poet trying to get by in the end of times, consider becoming a paid subscriber. For as little as $8 a month you’ll be entreated to essays on: the anniversary of the prototypical-forever war in Iraq, tour annals and dirties, obituaries, live readings and guest-posts.
Your contribution and readership are what sustain me. Be it financial or not-so-simply the time it takes for you to read, I cannot nor would I wish to continue without you. So pony up and read you some.
Would you like a letter pressed collection of poetry or limited-edition broadside that is perfect for a gift or to hang on your damn wall? Can’t afford to support me? Do you have somewhere for me to read and/or a floor or couch I can sleep on between shows? Most importantly, how can I serve you better, Good Subscriber?
Hit me:
jamesmichaeltrainer@gmail.com
The truth is I could never be alone. The work distracts me from death’s gaping maw and, let’s face it, after all these years the distraction has become the activity. By some miraculous turn the gods of luck are still in love with me. They give me this time at the desk and you give me your readership. We’ll get through, keep pushing til the light of day and anyway count down the days til we’re together again.
See you on the road, motherfucker.
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