Tag: random
Blog Posts / Random / Writing

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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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

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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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Blue Birds

- by Typewriter Fox

Minutes away; I waited years. I’m still not sure which is the most telling.   Maybe it doesn’t matter; maybe connecting is enough. Only bad things come from being greedy. Start small. But don’t be afraid to dream big. Remember to breathe. And give space. Don’t crowd; never shout. Listen—often and intently. Cherish, never complicate. Make sure she knows that she fucking matters. Most importantly, adore her. Not just for her attractiveness. But for her mind. Celebrate the art; dance with her. Drink borrowed champagne at dawn. Just because it’s ridiculous.  Inspire; do not instigate. Let it happen as it needs to—don’t force anything. Let her be however she needs to be. Hold her hand. Walk with her in the Michigan rain. Count the blue birds when …

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Blog Posts / Poems / Writing

517 Call

- by Typewriter Fox

i was never properly wired to understand the difference between wrong and write. and so I left. lovers on bridges often fasten their locks. then throw the keys out to the incoming tide. our captivity was a different variety— the only skeleton thrown out was me. i watched her, watching me, in black and white. because we dyed together in the colours. and could never seem to get the palette quite right. just a smeared mess of pigment, bleeding into Indiana canvas. the crooked one she kept, still hanging on the wall. when once— she hung on the words. there was a time when she found the edges of my language soft— the idea of that made me hard. she thought the burns on my arm …

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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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Day Drinking

- by Typewriter Fox

I adore the anonymity of a dark bar.   There is significant comfort found in their high-proof nonconformity. No emotional quarter is asked. And none is given—leave that fucking baggage at the door, friend. Because if the place is sufficiently dive enough, conversation rarely extends beyond monosyllabic sentences grunted across the bar.  Nobody talks. Or fucks with you. Unless you’re being an obnoxious drunk. That’ll get you thrown out. Or your ass kicked. There’s just no tolerance for that kind of amateur shit. At least not at three o’clock on another under-employed Friday afternoon. No one cares if you are stumbling in to join the other professional flies on maybe the worst day of your life. They frankly don’t give a shit about you. Even better, you …

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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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Bar Blessed

- by Typewriter Fox

She ended up blessing me. And all I did was buy her a pizza. With an accompanying pint. At the time, it seemed like a fair deal. So I was happy to make the investment. She dropped into the bar when I was already several rounds in. It was just another typical Saturday Old Town night. One spent feeling sorry for myself. Because after a week of having been benched after punching that fucking airplane, the threat of other winged monsters arriving on the morrow loomed large. And I wasn’t sure if I was prepared for that challenge. So I occupied myself by punishing my brain with doses of liquid poison. Downing rounds like it was my new job. Because at least that was a hurt …

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Bottom Shelf

- by Typewriter Fox

She said that this city is killing me. And, she is probably right. I feel the bite of that malignancy every fucking time the boulevard coughs and sputters. Or when I have to pivot myself to the floor to dodge the popping clack of turf wars erupting outside the second story of my window. I never wanted to fucking be in Michigan— shamrocked things were always much more my style. Because I was born with an insatiable hunger for something green. And the broken browns of dead Midwestern corn are at best a cruel joke. But here I am.  Suffering through the suffocation of another Ingham County overnight. Just rotting away in the inconsistent squeeze of a misunderstood Mitten’s grip. And expiring slow in the farcical …

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