Tag: hurt
Blog Posts / Random / Writing

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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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

You Call This a Storm?

- by Typewriter Fox

I didn’t think about the kids. I ordered another round instead.  Because that’s just what dirtbag, tin kicking 🦊s do on a random 517 Tuesday. On an angry night. When the storms blow in hard from the Great Plains. Gathering their strength out over the expanse of the big lake. Building destructive momentum. And painting the pallets of handheld radars with angry colours. The stuttering bite of backlit lightning silhouetted the curved outline of barely tolerated Eurotrash when her engines finally spooled up. Tolerated because at least it wasn’t a shitty downsized 757. That clunky beaked tin monster that’s a fucking chore to feed. Because its loose load bellies are a claustrophobic nightmare of knee punishing Boeing bullshit. The unremarkable Airbus generally fills the scheduling gaps …

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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

The New Old Town

- by Typewriter Fox

It was a February tease of a premature Michigan spring. A dishonest one. Because like most things here in the land of misunderstood Mittened madness, it wasn’t really real anyway. Just another Clinton County night spent pretending to be human. But at least it was a night warm enough to finally melt away all the fucking snow. Erasing all the ice clinging stubbornly to this 517 speed dialed insanity. And teasing a springed hope from all the inconvenient mud. But somehow, things inside remained rigidly frozen. And that left me aching for a different kind of thaw. Instead, I was rewarded with only an unseasonably foggy West Clark Road. The one lined with all the damn deer. Those tragic creatures cursed with a stubborn stupidity compelling …

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Champagne Idiot

- by Typewriter Fox

Slipping wild down around DeWitt Road. Right where the airport roads all blink and bend together. Down past the inconvenient end of 28 Left jutting out into Clinton County. That rippling runway scar along which a familiar tin tail number used to shimmy and brake in bombastic MD-11 style. Back in those happy times. Before that catastrophic crash, that cost me more of my friends. I was left shifting gears mechanically in time with the rhythm of sifted memories. Slapping the stick just to better absorb a soundtrack that only I could hear. Because something had to push me through all the suck.  And sometimes, you just have to ride out all the fucking hurt. It was just another unsupervised dose, of yet another manic Michigan …

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Last Call

- by Typewriter Fox

I have danced delicately in the grip of attractively damaged devils. And I have kissed the naked secrets of more freckled angels. I have played endlessly with big words. And even bigger guns. But eventually, I discovered that the words were far more damaging. Because a gun means unequivocally what it says. It rifles true in the world of pure absolutes. Whereas the whispered language of part-time lovers is often too unpredictable. And can’t ever be properly targeted in more responsible fashion. I am guilty of that obfuscation myself; I have never once said it plain before. It has always been easier to hide behind the clever wordplay. Lurking on the literary periphery of acceptable behaviors. Because I have learned through the errors of my trials …

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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Black Box

- by Typewriter Fox

Boozy slides down icy Clinton County back roads. Airplanes that spin down on routine maintenance flights. Or inexplicably drop out of the sky. On fucking fire. Carrying the names of faces once familiar to our little backwater Mittened gateway. Danger seems to lurk everywhere these days.  And all I can think is…. fuck it.  Bring on your worst, Michigan.  I am not afraid. Because at this point, I think it’s honestly kind of funny. Maybe it’s the unreasonable number of fresh Old Fashioneds helping pump the cloying sludge through aging veins fueling that bravado. Maybe it’s just the sheer repetitiveness of it all. Because when you dance with the devil every damn night, danger quickly melts into the mundane. Especially after so many close calls. Admittedly, …

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September Pines

- by Typewriter Fox

The tree atop what we once considered “our” little hill has started to die. The limbs are bare; the branches have all turned brittle. Broken remnants litter the ground. The trunk is suffering. But it used to be a happy place. That agreed upon spot where two lovers used to meet. Down along the river running Grand in the springtime of our romance. That little park strip, just on the Turner side of better gardens. The one filled with fragrant roses. And the brighter freshments never destined to endure. But that was in the before time. Back when summer warmth teased out natural glories. And allowed us the simple joy of actually feeling alive. I remember clearly the race towards that little hill. And just how …

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September Corn

- by Typewriter Fox

Sunday drunk in Dewitt. Again. Not exactly sure why that keeps fucking happening. Or what triggers the urge to consume liquid stupidity to the point that the voices actually dim. And the panic fades. Even if it’s just for a heartbeat of a Clinton County moment. I never intend for it to happen.   It just does. Because there I was again. Closing down the same Old Town haunts. Chatting up different ghosts, while pounding down the Sunday rounds. Embracing the A.B.V. of it all. Because there is fuck all else to do here in the Mittened wasteland. At least when there aren’t tin monsters to fight. And the last of lost weekend hours yawn in a 517 dial tone nothingness. Ripping raw down around Stoll Road. …

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Shot Glass 🦊

- by Typewriter Fox

It admittedly didn’t take long to slip back into the familiarity of old habits. A pocketful of hours into the 517 and I was back on a familiar rise. Where the lights from a mean city twinkle down on dirty water. Not the welcoming baptismal I anticipated. But it is the one I guess we deserved. Because we both lied. I realize that. It was just in different ways. And to very different people. Some lies were so big, the charm of their gravity pulled me from the dirty alleyways of Wayne’s City. All the way up to nowhere fucking Michigan. And when that attraction broke, I spun out inside the barreled sprawl of a strange Capital City.  Running feral, I could only capitalize on the …

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