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Falling in the 517

- by Typewriter Fox

I find myself drinking with ghosts tonight. Probably because I couldn’t tempt the Devil to actually dance with me.   Guess that’s just what happens when you sold your soul years ago—it’s not like I was using it much, anyway. Or maybe I got the music all wrong—I never really was particularly talented at properly setting a scene. I just know a low angry moon punctured a concrete skyline red. It looked like the sky was bleeding. And it painted all the sidewalks in strange hues before the city shrugged off the shackles of twilight and transitioned itself back over into a more recognizable LED madness. A familiar chill married itself to the wind blowing in from the direction of that big lake. The last lake in …

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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

9 to 5

- by Typewriter Fox

First, it was Dolly. Then right after, Tim. Both of which happened not long after we lost Ozzy.   And the absence of his beautiful darkness still lingers loud—it would be great if all the cultural icons could maybe take a break from crumbling away. But I guess that’s just not the way of the world. Sometimes, bad things come at you fast. Crashing over your head. Stabbing at your heart. Tearing at your gut. An unstoppable “9 to 5” tsunami of brutal “what the fuck was that?” Every goodbye is a reminder; every funeral is a souvenir of that terrible secret they never tell when you’re growing up—there is fuck all you can actually do to stop any of it. Because every thing, and every one, …

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MLK the Oompa Loompa Way

- by Typewriter Fox

It’s a shame how it always ends up with a walk away. I had been doing okay. Minding my own business. At least as much as the demons, and the state of a bank account skinnier than a tweaked out meth-head squatting on a ham sandwich behind a Q.D. dumpster, would allow. Overall, I was doing… better. Piss bottle collection was under control. And briefly listed on Neighbor Net. For a city in which I’ve never actually lived. At least until they yanked the ad–”Guaranteed to help you fail your drug test! Paternity hormones extra. Local pick-up only.”   The horrible smell in the bathroom was finally traced to the worn out silicone sex toy under the sink. The one with what appeared to be the moldy …

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The City

- by Typewriter Fox

I can still remember when The City was new. Everything sparkled clean back then—even me. Because I was stubbornly trying to make healthier choices in those days for the sake of a surrogate family to which I was never actually entitled. But I still tried to hold on to them all the same. There was a certain magic attached to all the strange street signs. The green ones hanging higher than I ever was. Fresh adventures sparked with every GPS guided misturn. Enticing surprises lurked around every quirky neighborhood’s twisted corner. You just had to be brave enough to actually make that fucking turn. Everything now is just stagnant; everything now just smells like decay. You can literally smell the city dying. When the wind off …

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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Jet A Blasted

- by Typewriter Fox

Ghosts danced in the hot smear of Jet A breakaway thrust. The heat shimmer metal breath carried them right over the fence hugging the Ingham County line. Hard memories rode high on that blasted exhaust, too. The ones bleeding themselves uninvited back over the uneven tracks. Right the fuck into the broken heart fever of a Clinton County left howling. Like they still had somewhere important to be. Funny how those names don’t really mean a damn thing anymore. Because fuck the itinerary. Stories worth telling usually don’t have one, anyway. So I faced those ghosts head on. And chased them all right the fuck off again—that is just what ramp 🦊s were born to do. It’s admittedly a feral life. One spent kicking tin. And …

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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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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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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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