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Two Five Nine

- by Typewriter Fox

It began like every other Michigan Tuesday. Wake up. And immediately struggle to shake off the hangover.   Down some coffee. Rub bloodshot eyes into hesitant focus. Get human again behind the twin hits of caffeine and tobacco. Shuffle across the constriction of a boulevard apartment seeking more nourishing stimulation. Because something had to get the sludge moving again. Force a cold body into a hot shower. Just to feel a different sensation. And to steam an uncooperative body back into adult movement. That aging, fragile meat bag still yelping internally from the abuses absorbed the night before.   Even a brain left pickled from the unanticipated liquid poisoning could still comprehend that it was probably the closest to a baptismal that the attached Mittened maniac will ever …

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Bottom Shelf

- by Typewriter Fox

She said that this city is killing me. And, she is probably right. I feel the bite of that malignancy every fucking time the boulevard coughs and sputters. Or when I have to pivot myself to the floor to dodge the popping clack of turf wars erupting outside the second story of my window. I never wanted to fucking be in Michigan— shamrocked things were always much more my style. Because I was born with an insatiable hunger for something green. And the broken browns of dead Midwestern corn are at best a cruel joke. But here I am.  Suffering through the suffocation of another Ingham County overnight. Just rotting away in the inconsistent squeeze of a misunderstood Mitten’s grip. And expiring slow in the farcical …

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Ramp Rats

- by Typewriter Fox

Gold and orange autumn canopies arched over broken Michigan asphalt. Reflective ocular cautions of migratory deer lined the road curving out past the grip of those unhealthy Clinton County mirages. Glaring glances peeked accusingly from the fields of brown corn recently broken in the harvest. And they constantly threatened unexpected collisions during the entirety of that wandering Tuesday night Airport Drive. It made me want to collapse into the want of someone. But that was just another 517 impossibility. And my heart fucking knew it. So I could only keep driving.  Pushing myself down past the awkward highway interchanges. And up around the curves where the numbered signs stop making sense. Because I was always taught that 69 should mean north and south. Not east and …

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517 Skeletons

- by Typewriter Fox

Somewhere amongst the curled pages of a yellowing manuscript lies my truth; somewhere beneath broken Michigan heartbeats hides my story. And in the space between the division of those divorcing concerns, somehow I survive. But, barely. My mornings are partnered with throbbing afternoon hangovers; my nights are too often invested chasing after ghosts. Lingering translucent amongst the memories in all those windows; reflecting on shadows cast across Old Town alleyways. Straining to hear the echo of old laughter before the tin monsters steal the last of my hearing for keeps. Because I can’t fucking remember the last joke she said to me. Robbed of my favorite little hill by the blight of renewed expansions, I seek another sanctuary amongst strange geography. Slinking haphazardly across inconsistently patched …

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Old Town Blues

- by Typewriter Fox

Lightning flashed bright above the skeletons in a strange city. Cold October rain ran down the back of a neck collared in high-viz blues. An inhospitable wind blew in west from the big lake, carrying with it the last kisses of those warm weather collisions. But I stood alone in the rain that hollow Saturday night. Felt the shift of the seasons on a greying face. The one turned over towards the river. And there, amidst the blustering of that storm, I felt myself hurting for her. Rows of Old Town brick houses stood guard over a spot that was special only to us. Because it was once the place where we just couldn’t bring ourselves to say goodbye. I will never forget that day. We …

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🦊+1 = WTF

- by Typewriter Fox

It shouldn’t really be a surprise that I have never written about her. Because foxes sometimes need to keep their secrets, too. She is the one story I want to keep pure; she is the one secret I could never bring myself to fully reveal. Because reveling in those memories still makes me happy. And it seems somehow cruel to heartlessly release them out into the wild for others to consume.  I would never want to be accused of exploiting past glories for the potential of gaining future shenanigans. Some considerations are meant for more gentle captivity. And I have been trying my best to respect those boundaries. Even though I would embarrassingly crawl on my hands and knees across 127 miles of broken glass just …

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Crossroads

- by Typewriter Fox

It isn’t often that life affords you the opportunity to stand at a literal crossroads. But there I was. A high-viz collar turned up against the darkness of Turner at my back. East Cesar E. Chavez stretching out beside me. Facing the curves of the planked river trail. The one skirting the spot where the fish are supposedly laddered around.   The song of water dancing over the dam filled the symphony of another Old Town night. And for once, I wanted to be safe in the sound of something. Because everything else has proven itself a whole lot of nothing. And the claustrophobic silence of that vacuum left a nervous fox drinking fidgeting. To the west, orange barrels lined the bridge. Their rigidly spaced regularity paced …

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October Exits

- by Typewriter Fox

It was right there. That exit out.  The one hooking right off of Old 27. Curving out to the promise of someplace new. Maybe somewhere better. Hopefully a place where the spooling engines don’t whine like temperamental metal bitches. And old hearts don’t get so easily broken. A single tug on the wheel; a simple moment of high-mile highway insanity.   Could it really be that simple?  The stink of airplanes chased me; every part of me itched to be clean. I found myself in need of a higher proof baptismal. And not just because of all the circulating infections. But because every broken man needs something numbing to which to pray in times of want. I had originally intended to behave. To be a good little …

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September Pines

- by Typewriter Fox

The tree atop what we once considered “our” little hill has started to die. The limbs are bare; the branches have all turned brittle. Broken remnants litter the ground. The trunk is suffering. But it used to be a happy place. That agreed upon spot where two lovers used to meet. Down along the river running Grand in the springtime of our romance. That little park strip, just on the Turner side of better gardens. The one filled with fragrant roses. And the brighter freshments never destined to endure. But that was in the before time. Back when summer warmth teased out natural glories. And allowed us the simple joy of actually feeling alive. I remember clearly the race towards that little hill. And just how …

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Temper Tantrum

- by Typewriter Fox

It’s a strange place to be. This in-between time.   A time when the hours creak. And the days rattle unpredictably. When the nighttime fucking hurts. Because the emptiness echoes hard against the mittened backdrop of broken Michigan asphalt. When the hazy hours before the brittle dawn get drunkenly muddled. And bleed into just another boozy haze of better forgotten stupidity. But something has to numb all the fucking hurt. So it may as well be that green glass devil. Because I’ve learned to love that affordable burn. And embarrassingly would do anything to actually feel something real again. It’s a strange place to be. This in-between time. Because I’ve never once been on the side of more agreeable angels. And I have never been one comfortable …

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