The Unexamined Life of the Typewriter Repairman

Fleeter now and busted to a cropped stunt double’s take on the grass calling the cucumber green. I’m basically just someone’s idea of factory-farmed idiocy. Like some weightlifter from San Leandro. Campy and wistfully sincere. I was dancing my shoes right through. It’s all a greasier plant in the audience of showing off my personality to become inured to. Baseless and stared right through. “Don’t become the worst of yourself over it,” I keep saying to the ill-intentioned spacebars inside of me. My daughter’s delivering mail. The kid’s got a head so unlike mine on her neck. Keep to it, I guess. Better than I’d have it. Shoulders hunched and sore with tabs of time’s relentlessness. Hands stained with inky ribbons of wear. A chipped and peeling army-green machine. I get so eulogy laden this time of year. My name’s out of the papers, at least. Pour me some au jus in a cocktail glass and put a few of my love letters under it. I’m filled with the carriage’s finest appeals to the typebars yet. To my sanity’s crutch, I go once again. Back’s a breaking. Ribs poking out. Head a dead letter to the misses I keep mostly to myself. A mysterious niche in the escapement’s loss. A captured feeling rolled through the platen. Drink my fill? Sure. In the mornings, mostly. A sentence’s death. A paragraph’s rum-fueled idiocy. Songs that write anything but themselves. Sympathy’s just an excuse to bide less…