Tag: anti-social
Random / Writing

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 …

Share
Read More
Blog Posts / Random / Writing

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, …

Share
Read More
Blog Posts / Random / Writing

The Dirty Boulevard

- by Typewriter Fox

I fought my way through hell. But, I was lucky enough to have kissed an angel. I felt the scaring prick of abuse. But, then I blushed hard against the curve of alabaster skin.  And delighted in her freckles counted there.  I wanted to give each a name.  And celebrate the imprint of their uniqueness. Forever. Instead, rough fingers traced the smoother edges of a dream right before the wake-up call of another scheduled good-bye. A clean dream.  One in which healthier avenues would eventually prevail.  And claim gentle victory over the forces of narcissistic intent. But being born to wander the dirty Boulevard leaves little room for acclimation.  Or even acceptance.  Not when legalities constantly threaten.  And commitment teeters under the influence of abusive memory.  …

Share
Read More
Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Capital City Consequence

- by Typewriter Fox

More miles than meaning.  And, that must mean something.   Even if it’s just words quivering over asphalt.  Chasing empty roads.  Or another fragile dream stumbling down another broken Boulevard.   Consequence.   The dirty offspring of (in)decision.   I tried loving myself once.  I just never did a very good job of loving myself back.  Because it was confusing.  A foreign concept never properly explained in domestic fashion.   So I learned other lessons instead.   How to fight.  First, with words.  Then later, more deadly intentions.   Soldier mode.   A simple switch of humanity flipped off. Not with the heated gesture vigorously displayed towards an endless parade of shitty Michigan drivers.  But the switch inside my head.  That dark space too ugly to …

Share
Read More
Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Apron Strings

- by Typewriter Fox

Gather ’round, my darling misfits of memory.   Let us drink like we are old–and wise. Let us feel like we are still young–and pliable. The caress of youth is fleeting–we should enjoy it while still able to absorb sensation before it all turns black.  And in that space, let the fabric of fresh experience unravel to reveal a new tapestry. The one of our destiny. And not our unpredictable definitions. Because those often change. And can’t be trusted.   Everything shifts as it ages.   But, I still remember the smell of my Mother’s apron when I hugged her that warm Indiana afternoon.   And, I still sometimes smart from the sting from when those strings snapped unexpectedly.   Scars are receipts of occurrence; tears are the currency of existence. …

Share
Read More
Random / Writing

Harvest Moon

- by Typewriter Fox

Michigan hardens tonight, leaving me to starve under a harvest moon.    The corn is ripe and ready for the reaping.  Bounty fills these flyover fields still strange to me, though at first glance, they were eerily familiar.  The new land of plenty and promise; opportunity and advancement.  Flourishing and thriving in the nurturing warmth of sharp Spartan sunshine.    But things are always different at night.    When the streets are deserted.  Save for the pinball shuffling of urban zombies caught juggling their burdens.  Be it addiction.  Or homelessness.  Or even mental illness.    I hand out smokes like a malignant Johnny Rotten Appleseed.  And I’m happy to help keep the cravings of strangers away.  Because I know what it is to do without.  Or …

Share
Read More
Random / Writing

Fish Ladders

- by Typewriter Fox

A sliver of a Michigan moon hooked low in a Tuesday night sky.  It anchored the darkness over the backdrop of less flown over fields still strange to me––I have only been in this city for 75 hours.  And haven’t yet mastered the streets.    It felt oddly like autumn.    And has the potential to be home.    Beside me, a strange river flowed north before bending itself sharply west to reach the eastern edge of Lake Michigan.  I could hear the water rolling off the dam. And couldn’t help but to wonder if any fish were actually using the ladder to navigate the transition.    There was no ladder provided for safety or convenience when shifting my own latitude––a move necessary to adjust my …

Share
Read More
Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Black Pack Nights

- by Typewriter Fox

Out walking whiskey drunk through the hood on a stale Indiana night.  On the hunt for a tobacco strong enough to see me through until the dawn.  Because I know that the sleep just isn’t going to come.    And that makes me nervous.    The air is heavy like an uncomfortable blanket.     Everything feels like it moves in slower motion.    The claustrophobia of humidity covers the darker realms of an ineffectual American Dream.  The part where everything is bought on credit and financial viability remains stubbornly dependent on the next payday that’s always too many fucking days away.    Various smells hang suspended–the unhealthy perfume of poverty.  Greasy foods cooked for greasy patrons at the corner bar.  Unmistakable whiffs of marijuana.  The baked …

Share
Read More