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Tantrum #517

- by Typewriter Fox

I will go unforgiving into that last long goodnight.  Numb from years of self-inflicted chemical abuses; numb from the crushing exhaustion born bearing the brunt of a lifetime’s worth of traumas. Carrying the accompaniment of inebriated embarrassments; burdened with the ingestion of all the self-medicating solutions. The temporary ones that sometimes seemed to work—right up until when they didn’t. Because brains are too often wired to demand increasingly stimulating dosages. And I religiously pushed those boundaries—it was the only place left for me to worship as I inevitably took my place amongst the dirtbag congregation of the damned. Somehow always left disappointed. Endlessly craving anything potent enough to take away all the hurt; endlessly seeking something caustic enough to level out all the scars. Desperately looking …

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Cinnamon Rain

- by Typewriter Fox

The storm hit hard and fast. Unlike the usual tantrums spawned from the bitchiness of our Mother’s nature, it dropped down from straight up North. Not from the face of the big lake over to the West. The more affluent side of a mittened madness, holding all the bigger monies. And for all I know, opportunities. The brunt of the rain was ignored with typical ramp attitude ambivalence. Because when work boots meet the tarmac, there isn’t any choice of shelter other than forced indifference. Often all we can do is turn exposed backs to the wind during momentary pauses in the chaotic operation feeding the big tin monster. Zipping up everything that can possibly be zipped. Ignoring the water soaking through waterproof everythings—because nothing is …

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X Marks the Lost

- by Typewriter Fox

There are a lot of us in the mid-Gen X range. Pre-millennials. Children born in the lead-based 70s. Early 90s high school graduates coming of age in a time of endless recessions. And night vision wars glowing on the television. Growing up with Saturday cartoon schedules and Sunday morning newspaper comics. Muppets and puppets teaching us basic humanity. Specials broadcast into our heads after school. Learning how to be good neighbors from a sweater. But they never taught us how to cope with Embassy hostages. Or Lennon getting shot. Then Reagan, who recovered to champion a surge of stupidity in the War on Drugs. And then to oversee the dedication of a black granite scar cut into the capital’s hillside. The one bearing the names of …

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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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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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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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