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Twenty-four

- by Typewriter Fox

30 SEP 2023 Little Red House Under the Stairs Sitting in front of an electric Underwood.  A 565.  It isn’t fancy. Or particularly pretty.  Functional.  Business.  Drab in its presentation. But, I can make it work. Some stickers.  A stencil here or there.  Perhaps some paint.  Or, maybe just let the kids free to have at it, with markers and paint pens.  Because why not? Colour never hurts.  Neither does another typewriter.  How many?  Who fucking knows…too many to count.  And, that’s okay.  As long as hers are hers and mine are mine.  Because we haven’t yet crossed that relationship threshold.  The one where collections are truly combined. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next year. Or maybe never. And, that’s okay.  I don’t want her ever getting lost.  …

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Marching Orders

- by Typewriter Fox

It’s always there.  That pressure. Do that thing.  Build something. Make it count. Live that moment.  Try that something.  Be there, in the now.  Because no one is guaranteed a later. Fight the good fights.  Not the ugly ones.  They seldom mean what we think they do.  And are too often a slippery slope into bad things. Make shit happen.  Push that damn airplane out every night.  Come home stinking of jet exhaust and sweat.  Kiss a pretty girl.  The one strong enough to have domesticated the feral fox. Well, mostly. I sometimes forget to take out the bin.  Even after several gentle reminders. I occasionally rumble the walls with my nightly gaseous emmissions. I can be sensitive.  And, abrasive. Often difficult.  Usually somewhere on the …

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Foxes Love Pop Tarts

- by Typewriter Fox

The whole of me yearns to make gentle the storms of her discontent.  To assuage the anger left amongst the lingering ashes of her contrition.  And to help unshackle the better intentions of her restrained angels. They were restricted for far too long.  Doubted.  Chastised. Ridiculed.  But through the dark times of competitive isolation, the ember of her originality somehow remained alight.  The brilliance of her spark endured, undimmed.   And now, the moment has come for her to burn free. I will fight to keep that fire sustained through the uniqueness of our experience together.  It won’t be easy, combining lives and creative expressions.  But the things that matter most in this life are seldom so simple.  And that complication only serves to stimulate me. She …

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The Neighborhood

- by Typewriter Fox

Go on, boy.   Bang it out. Then drink it in–irony tastes refreshingly bitter on the leading edge of a fifth decade.  So better to keep drinking while grinding through.  Consuming the madness.  Choking on the chemicalization.  Calculating paths of least resistance across the face of an uncooperative schedule. Because what’s another day of mittened mania, here in the hostile land of QD Donut Munchers? Freaking out in the absence of never fitting in.  Always the weird one.  The one watching from the meadowed periphery of entanglement.  Living out of bags and boxes.  Running scared from a hunting Wolverine wolf pack of rabid mediocrity.  The native predators pushing out the immigrant fox at the expense of his gentle collaboration.  Pressing somehow past self-inflicted boundaries.  Fingers ready on …

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Homecoming

- by Typewriter Fox

Heading back again across county lines a bitten straggler.  Just a dirty, exhausted Boulevard Boy limping back to where he doesn’t really belong.   Not the homecoming once imagined.  That foolish ideal was born years ago––an unearned right surrendered to the whims of violence.  But in those adrenaline tainted moments of its birth, just the idea of that ideal was enough to help keep me alive.  Because it meant that in some improbable way, I was actually wanted.  And that everything I had sacrificed somehow mattered.   But then came that night when I should have died.  That changed everything.  And afterwards, not much else seemed to really matter.     Including me.   Somewhere between those extremes, I was left an intimate trespasser.  A sweaty nightmare …

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Post-pandemic Saginaw Blues

- by Typewriter Fox

Half seven on a Mitten Thursday and accidentally whiskey tickled. Not what I expected from the day. But days are seldom what I expect anymore. So no point in demanding something different. I have always been more of a homewrecker word rocker. Because it is more fun. And that leaves the metaphorical boats under the direction of more capable captains, ones not afraid of navigating deeper waters. So I got caught chasing white lines with the White Stripes down West Saginaw. Because things belong with similar things. Otherwise it all breaks down, this illusion of civility. And I needed a spark to trigger me out of a lingering post-pandemic hangover. Because suddenly, we were all going to die. Touching groceries was a gamble. Wash everything; don’t …

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Literary Bad Boy

- by Typewriter Fox

She was a beautiful mess in a pretty sundress. Bright floral print and provocatively translucent. Short enough to tease urges from lingering winter hibernation. And just long enough to project modesty.   Freckled skin smelled of girly things. Hair spray and perfume; make-up and lotions. All those mysterious concoctions that boys just don’t understand. But to which they find themselves inexplicably drawn. Like horny moths to the gleaming heat of a summer porch light.   Her imperfect beauty clashed with his ramshackle presence. A worn t-shirt advertising his favorite fictional band. Sneakers more holes than tread. Sunglasses hiding eyes that went to sleep smoking. And woke up on fire.     She smelled of flowers; he smelled like the streets. That odd mixture of cigarette smoke, sweat, …

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