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Birthday Funeral Part Three: The Typewriter

- by Typewriter Fox

With a belly full of church food, and a head full of heavy static, this road weary fox slinked back to his room in the woods seeking temporary sanctuary.   The silence and stillness felt good after the emotions churned up over at St. Patrick’s.  A recharge in the pool, floating weightless in transparent nothingness; a quick sweat in the sauna, purging the poisons. Then a sprawl in dark, air-conditioned solitude, my skin bumping up gooses at the drastic shift in environment. I closed my eyes until the phone bleeped annoyingly beside my head in the bed. Hot coffee. A hotter shower. Because I had to wake myself up for the wake. And make myself back human again, before Skelly and I rolled over to the house. …

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Birthday Funeral Part Two: The Mass

- by Typewriter Fox

*blink* “Where the fuck am I? Oh yeah. Indiana.” *sigh* “Again.” It took senses a minute to congeal into coherence inside the darkness of that rented Porter County hotel room. After having fought the 69/94 gauntlet, reconvening with extended family shortly after wheels down, and just the whole stress of the situation, sleep did not come easy when the world finally stopped moving. Even after being nudged with the better part of a bottle of blackberry infused literary lubricant. At least that part of the plan worked. Although the resulting words of a first part were more idiosyncratic than intended. But that’s probably the fault of the idiot sitting behind the typewriter. I am not sure I will ever understand the reasons behind why she stuck …

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Birthday Funeral Part One: The Drive

- by Typewriter Fox

Things just haven’t been the same since you hot shot yourself.   That awful Monday night when the needle bit you a final goodbye. Alone. Curled up inside that ramshackle Indiana motel room tacked to the shoulder of US 33. Your few belongings neatly arranged as a last courtesy. Everything in its proper place. Everything except for those last words on a page—your final temper tantrum. It was a gibberish beyond the comprehension of most. But I understood perfectly. Because no matter the distance of our disconnect, we somehow remained tethered. At least when it came to the writing. We could read each other as easily as the riddle printed on the back of one of her hoarded banana Laffy-Taffys. She always had that soft spot flair …

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Unmasked Foxes

- by Typewriter Fox

In this carnival of broken souls, I have worn many masks. Friend. Lover. Scoundrel. Writer. Soldier. Artist. Failure. And I’m still not certain which one fits the best.  I just know that I’m running out of time to choose a final variation. Through it all… through every breaking of the heart… every scarring caress… every mournful upheaval…I followed what I felt was right. Fought for the ideas in which I genuinely believed. Screamed out pages of raging tantrums in neatly typed lines. But somehow, I got it all wrong. Kissed all the wrong faces. Coloured outside the wrong lines. Pulled the wrong fucking triggers. In the wrong fucking battles. And that made things messy.  Not an unexpected outcome when a well-intentioned accidental scavenger crashes the party …

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Sticks and Stones

- by Typewriter Fox

If only someone had told me it was the best worst of times. Maybe then I would have kept the receipts. Or demanded a refund.  But no one said a fucking word. Things that were plainly obvious to others remained stubbornly foreign to me; I was always the misshaped peg. And I kept trying to stuff myself inside all of the wrong holes.   I could never stomach the correct stillness of being bored. The mundane nature of pretend adulting goes against the nature of my chemistry; I am not hardwired for responsibility. And that disconnect causes more irritating friction than the back strap of a sandy beach thong.  So I stumble through as best I can. Playing the part of the drunken fool. Disrespecting boundaries. Because …

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Sushi Tastes Like Highschool

- by Typewriter Fox

The list of places I am no longer welcome continues to grow; the number of people willing to put up with my shit seems to be shrinking. Thankfully, it wasn’t an accidental cohabitation situation with a blonde disaster like the last time. Regrettably, it was a friend from high school who wanted to meet, “just to catch up.” After thirty some years of not actually seeing each other’s faces.  We somehow managed to stay in touch over the years. At least as far as the big life events were concerned–births, deaths, her too many affairs.   It was always the middle of the night when my phone would ring. Another transcontinental call. She knew I would be awake. And probably drunk enough to talk her back from …

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Coconut Rum Diaries

- by Typewriter Fox

Sunday drunk on coconut rum. Not a flavour native to Michigan. But it reminds me there are better places in the world. And that’s not nothing. So I cling to it, like a mother does her special needs child to keep him from running into the traffic barreling south on MLK. Tropical drinks downed against the backdrop of Midwestern blandness. It seems a reasonable response to the ridiculousness of it all. Because nothing here makes any fucking sense.   And I’m dying to get away.  Away from the stink of airplanes—yeah, I’m pretty fucking talented at kicking tin. I’ve set the early departure record multiple times. And someone up at corporate must have noticed that. Because they rolled back our scheduled departure. In doing so, I helped …

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The Fox

- by Typewriter Fox

I woke up in a panic. It wasn’t the usual, had the same fucking dream, kind of panic that I’m used to facing when eyes crack open.  But rather, it was the variety I only experience when I’m on the road.   I glanced at the bluffs overlooking the Ohio outside my balcony window to help ground me.  And for once, I can honestly say that I was thankful for the existence of Kentucky. After hastily getting dressed, I zombied down to the lower level after a detour to the parking lot.  I needed some smoke to help chase away the fog.  As I sat on the ledge overlooking the hilltop entrance, I couldn’t help but miss the convenience of immediate self-destruction. But I guess those days …

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The Escape

- by Typewriter Fox

It was a foggy start to the break.  And for once, I’m not talking about the usual, self-inflicted hangover variety. A thick blanket of actual fog obscured The City, a fact noticed immediately after my two asshole cats woke me with the pointless insanity of their morning zoomies performed right across my face.  A first glance out the window made me think it was time to maybe change my contacts.  Those daily disposables that I habitually wear until they decide to plop themselves off my eyeballs all on their own. But no, it was just Mother Nature in her white robe.  Bringing a rarely displayed layer of modesty to The City.  Because for a brief moment, if you squinted just the right way with stale contact …

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Sunday Coffee

- by Typewriter Fox

Blue Owl S. Washington The days all seem to start out the same way. Same intro; same cup of coffee. Same view of the same people. Admittedly, there is some comfort in that familiarity. But change is more fun. I guess maybe that is why there is always that push. Because laurels aren’t meant for resting. They are meant for pasta water—we just call them bay leaves when we do that. So let’s get something cooking, yeah? Maybe even incorporate that low hanging literary fruit I just picked. Mash it up. Let it ferment into a higher proof. Or like me, decompose slow at the back of the fridge, forgotten and unpalatable. Mix up the metaphors. Shaken, not bacon. Squeeze out the gooey center. Because that …

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