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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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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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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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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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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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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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Dirtbag Holiday

- by Typewriter Fox

Shake off the muck left from the night before. Crack open eyes matted with dirtbag gravel. Trace the line of a frayed power cord; unlock a sticky phone. What’s that fucking number again? Oh, yeah. A birthday. I should probably change that shit. Just so I don’t have to remember those digits anymore. It stopped being relevant over a year ago. It might be easier to use the print of a shaking finger. But biometrics rarely play nice with battered ramp hands. So I’m condemned to absorb yet another PIN. Without the security of any sort of receptive cushion to actually carry it. Splatter out plasticine texts. Because if I don’t respond quickly enough, people worry. And then wonder all day if I spent the night …

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