Tag: random
Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Songs for Indiana

- by Typewriter Fox

I just couldn’t face the idea of Indiana. Not after what she asked me, when last I was in that nugget shaped state—I am still caught processing that request. So it was safer for me to remain temporarily behind inside an angry Mitten; my heart was in desperate need of a “lost weekend” to help get my head bent back right again. As often happens inside gaps of untethered time, I continued my feral run. Seeking shelter inside of bottles. And unsolicited bar room conversations. Ducking and covering inside of increasing ABVs. Eventually wandering the empty capitol streets with a leather collar turned up against the wind blowing in off the big lake again, when numb enough to finally ignore everything. Inside the fleeting gaps of …

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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Soldier Mode

- by Typewriter Fox

Through a hundred-proof crack of fatigue, I slipped. Revealed a rare glimpse of my bruised humanity. Briefly opened the split curtains of emotional camouflage. Raged openly in a measured overnight temper tantrum.  I threw up honest words. All the way across an ocean. The words not often accessible to those of my gender. Or station. But I wrote them all the same. Then I collapsed, exhausted and exposed, into another night of 517 nothingness.  Alone. But weakness isn’t allowed. Not for those whose destiny it is to provide, anyway. The ones responsible for protecting the weak. The silent guardians of righteous intentions. The stoic peacekeepers of emotional equilibrium. The ones tasked with the difficulty of building a new world from nothing. Only to be rewarded with …

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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Fireball

- by Typewriter Fox

Pushing hard east on Michigan Avenue. Fireballing through traffic lights. The burn in the gut helping to burn down everything else. Because it is the kind of night to not really give a fuck. Just like every other night in these godforsaken flyover fields. The compulsion is always to put things with things. Even when there isn’t a handle to hold. Or a viable exit strategy. If I’ve learned anything over the years, it is that there is always something else left to lose. So it’s always a scramble to maintain some semblance of a grip. But everything eventually slips away anyway. Behind spinning tires lingers the stink of tin monsters. Those temperamental, dual-engined beasts. The ones nightly vomiting out “need it right the fuck now” …

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Blog Posts / Poems / Writing

The Gekkering

- by Typewriter Fox

The Gekkering i will make joyful the bright noise of my reimagination. i will stand determined on the side of more patient angels. i will walk unfettered by the stain of savage predator hearts. i will run free across the less travelled pathways. i will adapt quickly to the unpredictability of rhythm. i will hunt joys of better days lurking on tomorrow’s horizon. i will write honest the story of my vagabond experience. i will achieve what is hard; i will demand what is great. i am feral. i am free. i am FOX. ##)S.D.(## 21 JAN 25

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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Where Did You Go?

- by Typewriter Fox

Where did you go?  I screamed your name atop the graceful arch of the 421 bridge straddling two states. I called out for you beside a carved marker of polished stone. I whimpered soft your many nicknames under the shadows of the places where we should have kissed. But when I screamed, the mighty Ohio took no notice. Only continued to barge west on its journey over to the Mississippi. When I called out, only crumbling angels answered in their tears of a broken November. And when I whimpered, the streets could only laugh and heckle. Poking fun at the wounded pedestrian crossing against all the wrong lights. Where did you go? The time here is all empty now. Time usually filled fighting temperamental tin beasts. …

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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

In Between Bender Blues

- by Typewriter Fox

It takes a moment to gather bearings at the tail end of a holiday weekend binge. One fueled by poisons, pot noodles, and objectively questionable decisions. Surveying the carnage in a dirty motel room booked without memory, it is no wonder why insides ache. And the tongue feels desperately in need of a shave.  Empties scattered everywhere. Overflowing improvised ashtrays clashing with little plastic “No Smoking” reminders. Pages of inked gibberish scattered over the table. They obscure a typewriter embarrassed at having witnessed another marathon spinout of pour me—puke in the trashcan. Puke in the shower. Puke in my shoes.  Why is there always so much puke?  Housekeeping deserves a respectable tip. Something more than the fluid soaked sheets and the nightmare that is the bathroom. …

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Birthday Funeral Part One: The Drive

- by Typewriter Fox

Things just haven’t been the same since you hot shot yourself.   That awful Monday night when the needle bit you a final goodbye. Alone. Curled up inside that ramshackle Indiana motel room tacked to the shoulder of US 33. Your few belongings neatly arranged as a last courtesy. Everything in its proper place. Everything except for those last words on a page—your final temper tantrum. It was a gibberish beyond the comprehension of most. But I understood perfectly. Because no matter the distance of our disconnect, we somehow remained tethered. At least when it came to the writing. We could read each other as easily as the riddle printed on the back of one of her hoarded banana Laffy-Taffys. She always had that soft spot flair …

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Unmasked Foxes

- by Typewriter Fox

In this carnival of broken souls, I have worn many masks. Friend. Lover. Scoundrel. Writer. Soldier. Artist. Failure. And I’m still not certain which one fits the best.  I just know that I’m running out of time to choose a final variation. Through it all… through every breaking of the heart… every scarring caress… every mournful upheaval…I followed what I felt was right. Fought for the ideas in which I genuinely believed. Screamed out pages of raging tantrums in neatly typed lines. But somehow, I got it all wrong. Kissed all the wrong faces. Coloured outside the wrong lines. Pulled the wrong fucking triggers. In the wrong fucking battles. And that made things messy.  Not an unexpected outcome when a well-intentioned accidental scavenger crashes the party …

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Sticks and Stones

- by Typewriter Fox

If only someone had told me it was the best worst of times. Maybe then I would have kept the receipts. Or demanded a refund.  But no one said a fucking word. Things that were plainly obvious to others remained stubbornly foreign to me; I was always the misshaped peg. And I kept trying to stuff myself inside all of the wrong holes.   I could never stomach the correct stillness of being bored. The mundane nature of pretend adulting goes against the nature of my chemistry; I am not hardwired for responsibility. And that disconnect causes more irritating friction than the back strap of a sandy beach thong.  So I stumble through as best I can. Playing the part of the drunken fool. Disrespecting boundaries. Because …

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Sushi Tastes Like Highschool

- by Typewriter Fox

The list of places I am no longer welcome continues to grow; the number of people willing to put up with my shit seems to be shrinking. Thankfully, it wasn’t an accidental cohabitation situation with a blonde disaster like the last time. Regrettably, it was a friend from high school who wanted to meet, “just to catch up.” After thirty some years of not actually seeing each other’s faces.  We somehow managed to stay in touch over the years. At least as far as the big life events were concerned–births, deaths, her too many affairs.   It was always the middle of the night when my phone would ring. Another transcontinental call. She knew I would be awake. And probably drunk enough to talk her back from …

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