Tag: hurt
Blog Posts / Random / Writing

9 to 5

- by Typewriter Fox

First, it was Dolly. Then right after, Tim. Both of which happened not long after we lost Ozzy.   And the absence of his beautiful darkness still lingers loud—it would be great if all the cultural icons could maybe take a break from crumbling away. But I guess that’s just not the way of the world. Sometimes, bad things come at you fast. Crashing over your head. Stabbing at your heart. Tearing at your gut. An unstoppable “9 to 5” tsunami of brutal “what the fuck was that?” Every goodbye is a reminder; every funeral is a souvenir of that terrible secret they never tell when you’re growing up—there is fuck all you can actually do to stop any of it. Because every thing, and every one, …

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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

MLK the Oompa Loompa Way

- by Typewriter Fox

It’s a shame how it always ends up with a walk away. I had been doing okay. Minding my own business. At least as much as the demons, and the state of a bank account skinnier than a tweaked out meth-head squatting on a ham sandwich behind a Q.D. dumpster, would allow. Overall, I was doing… better. Piss bottle collection was under control. And briefly listed on Neighbor Net. For a city in which I’ve never actually lived. At least until they yanked the ad–”Guaranteed to help you fail your drug test! Paternity hormones extra. Local pick-up only.”   The horrible smell in the bathroom was finally traced to the worn out silicone sex toy under the sink. The one with what appeared to be the moldy …

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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

The City

- by Typewriter Fox

I can still remember when The City was new. Everything sparkled clean back then—even me. Because I was stubbornly trying to make healthier choices in those days for the sake of a surrogate family to which I was never actually entitled. But I still tried to hold on to them all the same. There was a certain magic attached to all the strange street signs. The green ones hanging higher than I ever was. Fresh adventures sparked with every GPS guided misturn. Enticing surprises lurked around every quirky neighborhood’s twisted corner. You just had to be brave enough to actually make that fucking turn. Everything now is just stagnant; everything now just smells like decay. You can literally smell the city dying. When the wind off …

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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Jet A Blasted

- by Typewriter Fox

Ghosts danced in the hot smear of Jet A breakaway thrust. The heat shimmer metal breath carried them right over the fence hugging the Ingham County line. Hard memories rode high on that blasted exhaust, too. The ones bleeding themselves uninvited back over the uneven tracks. Right the fuck into the broken heart fever of a Clinton County left howling. Like they still had somewhere important to be. Funny how those names don’t really mean a damn thing anymore. Because fuck the itinerary. Stories worth telling usually don’t have one, anyway. So I faced those ghosts head on. And chased them all right the fuck off again—that is just what ramp 🦊s were born to do. It’s admittedly a feral life. One spent kicking tin. And …

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Michigan Coughs

- by Typewriter Fox

Canada burns; Michigan coughs.   Dirty sweat sizzles dripping on buckling tarmac. Thermometers strain to capture accurate readings. Because most aren’t designed to read quite so fucking high.  Boot soles soften pressing against the scorch radiating up from shimmering concrete. Lungs scream and struggle to function against the domed pressure pushing in. Every breath a small victory in furnaced survival; every simple movement a cry for some sense of refreshment. The days always end with choking on the stink of a polluted river running sulphur summer sludge. That pungent bouquet of rot hanging low. Down where the dirty Boulevard dips before twisting right the fuck back up. So I always hold my breath crossing that bridge back over to the grime of the West Side.  Looping myself …

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Rougher Edges

- by Typewriter Fox

I started drinking early to numb the rougher edges of having to be me. Because I never really understood the part I was destined to play. My piece never seemed to fit cleanly anywhere, so I had to constantly pound myself into all the wrong holes. There wasn’t anyone available to explain the intricacies of it all to me; I was born, starving, into a world of want.   And that sensation of insatiable hunger never really went away. So something had to fill it.  When I initially asked for comfort in my more tender years, I was mocked. Belittled for being so weak. When I confessed the dark secrets unwillingly grunted inside of me, I was ridiculed to such an extent, I actually believed it when …

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Clinton County Confessions

- by Typewriter Fox

She always seems to be there when I need her the most.  Usually after polite business hours. Long after the work day is done. And all the lame amateurs have finally cleared the bar, leaving better room for higher proof regulars to finally relax. There are, after all, only so many straight-billed, Coors Ultra downing douchebags a person can tolerate in a single 517 evening. She breezed right in on that random DeWitt Saturday.  It was a slow night. And I probably should have taken advantage of the quieter vibe and moved closer to continue our conversation from before. But I like watching her from a distance. Not in some creepy, stalkery way. But because that’s just what typewriting foxes do, having learned it is often …

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Capital City Bender Blues

- by Typewriter Fox

Hot concrete alleyways. The reek of stale piss. Potholes and pitfalls. Destruction buffered by neon orange barrels. Barricades blinking caution. Fresh spilled asphalt and naked construction ringing named neighborhoods once historic in nature. The ones now desperately trying to make all the old things back new again. The Capital City.   Its face familiar to me since those early summertime drives. But strangely foreign to me now that I’ve seen it through the bendered lens of an empty bottle’s bottom.  Strange vibrations tangle unsteady feet. Green glass lies echo everywhere. Ugly graffiti, sprayed with the rattle can of memory, howls. Because no matter how many times it gets power-washed under high-proof pours, traces still linger undefined.  Another sleepless night. A fresh spring giving birth to more stillborn …

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Tequila Sunrise

- by Typewriter Fox

It was just another Michigan Sunday dirtbag night. One itching from the bite of hours left unsupervised. And one thirsty for the familiar refreshment of dirty Guinness pours. The free shots of tequila were an unexpected addition. But then, so was she. And while fermented worm juice is not particularly my favorite way to rot my gut, she is still my favorite way to break my heart. So I couldn’t refuse the offer. And then I kept drinking long after she disappeared back into the night. Maybe that’s why I woke up in the stinking confines of a concrete parking garage. That urban surrogate standing in for the depravity of more familiar Old Town bushes.  But at least it was a change of scenery. Not that …

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Blog Posts / Poems / Writing

Aoife

- by Typewriter Fox

The room was warm; her skin was cold.  Machines beeped.  Suddenly, they didn’t.  It was a silence  i still scream forever.   My favorite angel— born before her time;  the one for whom  i waited a lifetime. The more gentle parts  of a broken man…   i held a tiny hand.  one that i just can’t  fucking let go.  The hand i feel  whenever i close  100 proof eyes..   Her absence— the gap in my soul;  her memory— the burn in my gut..   i stand, alone, facing an East Wind blowing. she sleeps, unaware, in velvet of Irish green. Far away from me, on a little hill filled with big sorrows.   in the haunting symphony  of my intimate melancholy,  hers is the sweetest …

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