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Fireball

- by Typewriter Fox

Pushing hard east on Michigan Avenue. Fireballing through traffic lights. The burn in the gut helping to burn down everything else. Because it is the kind of night to not really give a fuck. Just like every other night in these godforsaken flyover fields. The compulsion is always to put things with things. Even when there isn’t a handle to hold. Or a viable exit strategy. If I’ve learned anything over the years, it is that there is always something else left to lose. So it’s always a scramble to maintain some semblance of a grip. But everything eventually slips away anyway. Behind spinning tires lingers the stink of tin monsters. Those temperamental, dual-engined beasts. The ones nightly vomiting out “need it right the fuck now” …

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The Gekkering

- by Typewriter Fox

The Gekkering i will make joyful the bright noise of my reimagination. i will stand determined on the side of more patient angels. i will walk unfettered by the stain of savage predator hearts. i will run free across the less travelled pathways. i will adapt quickly to the unpredictability of rhythm. i will hunt joys of better days lurking on tomorrow’s horizon. i will write honest the story of my vagabond experience. i will achieve what is hard; i will demand what is great. i am feral. i am free. i am FOX. ##)S.D.(## 21 JAN 25

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Deer Prints

- by Typewriter Fox

It has been nearly impossible developing original language. Finding fresh explanations. Breaking new words to better fit old desires. Capturing the code of communication between us.  Words can just be tricky that way. But I still had to try. Language remains the only bridge between where we were and where she is destined to go. Because we were in very different places. Even though we were walking there together.  We started at the park. The one where we used to meet. Years ago. In the before times. Back when life wasn’t this fucking complicated. She confessed to wanting to find her spot. And expressed her gratitude that her favorite fox, the one sporting an alarming amount of grey in his fur, was there to help her. …

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Where the Sidewalk Ended

- by Typewriter Fox

Somebody lit the house on fire. It burns to this day. Even though I have temporarily retreated safely back across state lines. It is a tangible buffer; it keeps us separated. And responsibly distant. Which, considering the severity of the situation, is probably the best possible outcome. Because I felt that familiar compulsion to jump in. Head first. Consequences be damned. Just like I always do when tangled up in a situation where wounded hearts are on the line. But at the same time, I don’t want her to jump with me. Only one of us deserves to tumble down these dirty alleyways. Better that it be me—I am expendable. And she is already destined for a different kind of fall. So I will take the …

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My Immortal

- by Typewriter Fox

“Please, Fox. Don’t let me fall.” Her voice nearly broke in six words. She sounded small. Somehow younger. It was almost like I blinked. And in that fractured splitting of a second, the fearless powerhouse of a woman with whom I was so familiar had morphed into a defenseless little girl. The worst possible magic trick imaginable. And I didn’t know what the fuck I was I supposed to do with that request. It triggered a familiar “soldier mode.” That almost clinical shutting down of emotion. Because at that moment, she needed me to be brave. And I refused to disappoint her. The entirety of her tribe wants her to fight. To accept the invasive treatments not guaranteeing anything beyond maybe a little more time. And …

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Sour City

- by Typewriter Fox

I lost myself inside a raging night upon my return. And then I wandered the fringes of a sour city to help process the enormity of the day left behind. All around me, pockmarked streets lingered wrong. The ones still broken from the day before. Soaked asphalt reflected back the smell of thawing garbage. Arguments echoed through the unseasonable dankness of urban disenfranchisement. And those words carried, making everything sticky. I found myself traversing unstable territory. Ripping wild along the river. Down past where the fish are laddered across the damning damming of this Capital City. Intentionally crossing functional borders, like I once did, back when I was fearless. And took foolish pride in how stealthily we ran those ridges. But that was a lifetime ago.  …

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Winter Solstice

- by Typewriter Fox

It was a beautiful and terrible day. Maybe it was the tired snow still blanketing a 517 indifference. Maybe it was the lingering resentments leftover from the before times. But there was an intrusive sense that something in the long loneliness of this winter had shifted. And I didn’t know which direction to expect next. After a period of dormancy, we connected again. Schedules aligned unexpectedly, demanding impulsive investment. Her state or mine, the details didn’t matter. We had to capture the moment. So I took the hit and made the run south along the frozen expanse of familiar roads. We walked. Hand in hand across the barrenness of an open field. Wind kissed exposed skin, turning it red amongst a background of more durable greys. …

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Where Did You Go?

- by Typewriter Fox

Where did you go?  I screamed your name atop the graceful arch of the 421 bridge straddling two states. I called out for you beside a carved marker of polished stone. I whimpered soft your many nicknames under the shadows of the places where we should have kissed. But when I screamed, the mighty Ohio took no notice. Only continued to barge west on its journey over to the Mississippi. When I called out, only crumbling angels answered in their tears of a broken November. And when I whimpered, the streets could only laugh and heckle. Poking fun at the wounded pedestrian crossing against all the wrong lights. Where did you go? The time here is all empty now. Time usually filled fighting temperamental tin beasts. …

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In Between Bender Blues

- by Typewriter Fox

It takes a moment to gather bearings at the tail end of a holiday weekend binge. One fueled by poisons, pot noodles, and objectively questionable decisions. Surveying the carnage in a dirty motel room booked without memory, it is no wonder why insides ache. And the tongue feels desperately in need of a shave.  Empties scattered everywhere. Overflowing improvised ashtrays clashing with little plastic “No Smoking” reminders. Pages of inked gibberish scattered over the table. They obscure a typewriter embarrassed at having witnessed another marathon spinout of pour me—puke in the trashcan. Puke in the shower. Puke in my shoes.  Why is there always so much puke?  Housekeeping deserves a respectable tip. Something more than the fluid soaked sheets and the nightmare that is the bathroom. …

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Songs from the Fish Ladder

- by Typewriter Fox

November rain shimmered bleak on broken “Five One Seven” asphalt. An agitated capital howled back in the dampness of oil slick reflections. Clammy concrete amplified the winds, funneling nocturnal vagabonds. And the creep of city street creatures. Aggravated skies leaked unseasonably warm, lake-fed temper tantrums. The river, bathed in polluted runaways, flowed heavy. But not heavy enough to live up to its named expectation.  Decayed leaves stuck to everything. An inconvenient reminder. A crumbling signature of another vindictive season of falling things. The one currently caught decomposing, down where the fish are all laddered back up.  Into that storm I walked, a vagrant heart absorbing the similarity of surroundings. Begging the connection of repetitive reminiscences. Twisting memory into disrobed branches. Matching the ones clawing up, clashing …

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