There’s Revolution in the Air

It was never supposed to be this way. But then, I have been neither eloquent, nor succinct enough, to ever realistically expect anything different. I have instead reached teasingly for lyrical cadences carefully measured to hide behind and designed to build the rhythm to pull out the emotions in a crowd of hesitant confusion, like ripping a festering splinter from an overworked intellect quickly crumbling. I have fought exhaustingly the blankness of the page, mirroring back the blankness of my soul, desperate to write into creation the successful life I was discouragingly unable to find in the outside world, just so that I would have something that I could actually call my own.  Even if it was only for just a few pages more. I have …

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Confessions of a Broken American

It is the kind of late summer night that feels overly ripe for confessions. It is the kind of night that lingers and churns, as the bitter words balk and hesitate on the tip of a dry tongue.  Words that yearn to be screamed out from the very rooftop of a small blue house cornered nakedly in the broken heart of a City of Wayne.  Words aching for the altruistic freedoms promised by honest artistic exclamation.  Words that instead inexplicably cling tenaciously to the last gasp of decent decorum and the inherently flawed rules of a supposedly polite society that was anything but polite to me, in all the years spent in this shitty little flyover town so full of fucked up perspectives and priorities and …

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Loathing the Fear in Wayne’s City

The Republic is undeniably burning tonight. And all the accompanying fears seep in hard and unrelenting through the smoke, probing and penetrating daily against secretive hushed boundaries in  surprisingly offensive retaliation for our uniquely dysfunctional national immaturity still unraveling nightly on the world’s stage. Fear that is never quite fully mitigated; an underlying uncertainty that never seems rationally moderated.  The terror that is neglectfully left unrestrained and unsupervised on the naked battlefield of our pandemically tainted zeitgeist.  The constant unchecked gluttonous extinguishment of weary victims keeps occurring, even long after that supposed final shot.  Or that untrained uniform squeeze.  Or the metallic click of unjustified handcuffs.  Or an unmasked cough’s wet rattle. So the cities are caught in the grip of violent protest tonight. Citizens march …

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Day 75: Head In The Clouds (Of Tear Gas)

Thankfully, my city did not burn last night. But, we still marched. It began as a quiet and peaceful protest at the courthouse green, the nearly spontaneous gathering of a multitude of different genders, races, and generations from all across the City of Wayne, brought together in united solidarity to mourn the tragic murder of an innocent man.  It ended in a sea of misinformation, tear gas, and more arrests. The vibe was initially a mournful one, the chants of “we can’t breathe” and “justice for George” echoing hard off the court house walls, the universally American symbol of justice and unbiased decisions made for the sake of the common good.  For the briefest glimmer, skin color, economic backgrounds, and the other divisions far too often …

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Birth Of A Studio

Welcome to the very beginnings of Typewriter Fox Studios, a multi-media, multifaceted, multi-ratcheted, multi-orgasmic, organical, non-vegan (because fuck all that), bacon beer whiskey boob depression-fueled trove of juvenile-jerk-off-jibberish and infantile doodles.  Give it a peek, try to break it, just don’t be too harsh in your assessment….it’s still just a baby.  And you have to be nice to babies.  Because, for some fuckered-up reason, it is frowned upon in modern American society to non-gay-sashay up to an infant and tell them, in tenderly adulty tones, that they need to just shut the fuck up.  Or comment upon how ugly they are and that you truly hope that they will eventually grow into their faces.    

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