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The written words, man….
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Sour City

- by Typewriter Fox

I lost myself inside a raging night upon my return. And then I wandered the fringes of a sour city to help process the enormity of the day left behind. All around me, pockmarked streets lingered wrong. The ones still broken from the day before. Soaked asphalt reflected back the smell of thawing garbage. Arguments echoed through the unseasonable dankness of urban disenfranchisement. And those words carried, making everything sticky. I found myself traversing unstable territory. Ripping wild along the river. Down past where the fish are laddered across the damning damming of this Capital City. Intentionally crossing functional borders, like I once did, back when I was fearless. And took foolish pride in how stealthily we ran those ridges. But that was a lifetime ago.  …

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Winter Solstice

- by Typewriter Fox

It was a beautiful and terrible day. Maybe it was the tired snow still blanketing a 517 indifference. Maybe it was the lingering resentments leftover from the before times. But there was an intrusive sense that something in the long loneliness of this winter had shifted. And I didn’t know which direction to expect next. After a period of dormancy, we connected again. Schedules aligned unexpectedly, demanding impulsive investment. Her state or mine, the details didn’t matter. We had to capture the moment. So I took the hit and made the run south along the frozen expanse of familiar roads. We walked. Hand in hand across the barrenness of an open field. Wind kissed exposed skin, turning it red amongst a background of more durable greys. …

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Where Did You Go?

- by Typewriter Fox

Where did you go?  I screamed your name atop the graceful arch of the 421 bridge straddling two states. I called out for you beside a carved marker of polished stone. I whimpered soft your many nicknames under the shadows of the places where we should have kissed. But when I screamed, the mighty Ohio took no notice. Only continued to barge west on its journey over to the Mississippi. When I called out, only crumbling angels answered in their tears of a broken November. And when I whimpered, the streets could only laugh and heckle. Poking fun at the wounded pedestrian crossing against all the wrong lights. Where did you go? The time here is all empty now. Time usually filled fighting temperamental tin beasts. …

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In Between Bender Blues

- by Typewriter Fox

It takes a moment to gather bearings at the tail end of a holiday weekend binge. One fueled by poisons, pot noodles, and objectively questionable decisions. Surveying the carnage in a dirty motel room booked without memory, it is no wonder why insides ache. And the tongue feels desperately in need of a shave.  Empties scattered everywhere. Overflowing improvised ashtrays clashing with little plastic “No Smoking” reminders. Pages of inked gibberish scattered over the table. They obscure a typewriter embarrassed at having witnessed another marathon spinout of pour me—puke in the trashcan. Puke in the shower. Puke in my shoes.  Why is there always so much puke?  Housekeeping deserves a respectable tip. Something more than the fluid soaked sheets and the nightmare that is the bathroom. …

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Songs from the Fish Ladder

- by Typewriter Fox

November rain shimmered bleak on broken “Five One Seven” asphalt. An agitated capital howled back in the dampness of oil slick reflections. Clammy concrete amplified the winds, funneling nocturnal vagabonds. And the creep of city street creatures. Aggravated skies leaked unseasonably warm, lake-fed temper tantrums. The river, bathed in polluted runaways, flowed heavy. But not heavy enough to live up to its named expectation.  Decayed leaves stuck to everything. An inconvenient reminder. A crumbling signature of another vindictive season of falling things. The one currently caught decomposing, down where the fish are all laddered back up.  Into that storm I walked, a vagrant heart absorbing the similarity of surroundings. Begging the connection of repetitive reminiscences. Twisting memory into disrobed branches. Matching the ones clawing up, clashing …

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typer
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Birthday Funeral Part Three: The Typewriter

- by Typewriter Fox

With a belly full of church food, and a head full of heavy static, this road weary fox slinked back to his room in the woods seeking temporary sanctuary.   The silence and stillness felt good after the emotions churned up over at St. Patrick’s.  A recharge in the pool, floating weightless in transparent nothingness; a quick sweat in the sauna, purging the poisons. Then a sprawl in dark, air-conditioned solitude, my skin bumping up gooses at the drastic shift in environment. I closed my eyes until the phone bleeped annoyingly beside my head in the bed. Hot coffee. A hotter shower. Because I had to wake myself up for the wake. And make myself back human again, before Skelly and I rolled over to the house. …

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Birthday Funeral Part Two: The Mass

- by Typewriter Fox

*blink* “Where the fuck am I? Oh yeah. Indiana.” *sigh* “Again.” It took senses a minute to congeal into coherence inside the darkness of that rented Porter County hotel room. After having fought the 69/94 gauntlet, reconvening with extended family shortly after wheels down, and just the whole stress of the situation, sleep did not come easy when the world finally stopped moving. Even after being nudged with the better part of a bottle of blackberry infused literary lubricant. At least that part of the plan worked. Although the resulting words of a first part were more idiosyncratic than intended. But that’s probably the fault of the idiot sitting behind the typewriter. I am not sure I will ever understand the reasons behind why she stuck …

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Birthday Funeral Part One: The Drive

- by Typewriter Fox

Things just haven’t been the same since you hot shot yourself.   That awful Monday night when the needle bit you a final goodbye. Alone. Curled up inside that ramshackle Indiana motel room tacked to the shoulder of US 33. Your few belongings neatly arranged as a last courtesy. Everything in its proper place. Everything except for those last words on a page—your final temper tantrum. It was a gibberish beyond the comprehension of most. But I understood perfectly. Because no matter the distance of our disconnect, we somehow remained tethered. At least when it came to the writing. We could read each other as easily as the riddle printed on the back of one of her hoarded banana Laffy-Taffys. She always had that soft spot flair …

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Unmasked Foxes

- by Typewriter Fox

In this carnival of broken souls, I have worn many masks. Friend. Lover. Scoundrel. Writer. Soldier. Artist. Failure. And I’m still not certain which one fits the best.  I just know that I’m running out of time to choose a final variation. Through it all… through every breaking of the heart… every scarring caress… every mournful upheaval…I followed what I felt was right. Fought for the ideas in which I genuinely believed. Screamed out pages of raging tantrums in neatly typed lines. But somehow, I got it all wrong. Kissed all the wrong faces. Coloured outside the wrong lines. Pulled the wrong fucking triggers. In the wrong fucking battles. And that made things messy.  Not an unexpected outcome when a well-intentioned accidental scavenger crashes the party …

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Sticks and Stones

- by Typewriter Fox

If only someone had told me it was the best worst of times. Maybe then I would have kept the receipts. Or demanded a refund.  But no one said a fucking word. Things that were plainly obvious to others remained stubbornly foreign to me; I was always the misshaped peg. And I kept trying to stuff myself inside all of the wrong holes.   I could never stomach the correct stillness of being bored. The mundane nature of pretend adulting goes against the nature of my chemistry; I am not hardwired for responsibility. And that disconnect causes more irritating friction than the back strap of a sandy beach thong.  So I stumble through as best I can. Playing the part of the drunken fool. Disrespecting boundaries. Because …

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