The Dirty Boulevard

I fought my way through hell.

But, I was lucky enough to have kissed an angel.

I felt the scaring prick of abuse.

But, then I blushed hard against the curve of alabaster skin.  And delighted in her freckles counted there.  I wanted to give each a name.  And celebrate the imprint of their uniqueness.


Instead, rough fingers traced the smoother edges of a dream right before the wake-up call of another scheduled good-bye.

A clean dream.  One in which healthier avenues would eventually prevail.  And claim gentle victory over the forces of narcissistic intent.

But being born to wander the dirty Boulevard leaves little room for acclimation.  Or even acceptance.  Not when legalities constantly threaten.  And commitment teeters under the influence of abusive memory.  Both hers and mine.

It is cold here, down amongst the flawed shadows.

And, I had almost forgotten that chill.

Everything feels brittle; I would give anything for a single spark.

But instead, outside a window overlooking familiar decay, there is only a rented ghetto view of a strange Capitol’s rotunda.  Midwestern politeness and hood-rat scampering blend in air warmer than what is reasonable for a Michigan February–I still haven’t fucking figured out this city.

Across six lanes of congestion, a stranger showers with her blinds open.  But I have no interest in sex.  Other seductions are in play.  The ones against which promises were made to offer reassurances.

A weaker man might break them.  And find himself tipping into a bottle.  Or surrendering himself to more primal urges. I am tempted.  Not by the friction of carnal pleasures.  But by the expanse of all the streets yet to be explored. And the experiences in them yet to be written.

Because they are all out there.  Just waiting for the right eyes to see them–the right combination of words to capture them convincingly.  Even if that vision is blurred.  Or, distorted. It would still count for something.  And, that isn’t nothing.

It is just life.

The night here is young; the hours have yet to creep into worrisome territory.  But, I am already pacing.  Nervous at the sudden shift back into traffic of merging worlds.

Because promises often falter behind facades of construction; distance can make the heart grow (c)older.

The pulse of a strange city skips another beat.

My family goes on without me; I don’t know how I got here.

All I know is that I am alone, rotting away down on the dirty Boulevard…


About Typewriter Fox, fighter, lover, typewriter fanatic, and unrepentant Fenian bastard. Known to few, hated by many, but still typing the good fight.

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