Two Minds

we are of two minds,

you and I

vessels pitched toward

names left shapeless:

light to hold

by the comatose

mewling of silhouettes

as if breezes

no land here

only digital connections

between separate hearts

hoping to download a soul

Two Minds


A Tribute to Ursula K Le Guin

Art by Rebecca Guay for “A Wizard of Earthsea.”

You taught us the meaning of humanity

out on the Sea, where the Earth

falls away and leaves us with nothing

save the mud of our struggle

visions of utopia left behind

when mad men came ashore

looking for Heaven.


When I hold my Left Hand to Darkness,

no one asks if I still suffer

what those men work in the shadows;

instead they take my hand and show

a map to the stars holds hope

that we are more than what we are

and not everything can be bought.


Perhaps we will never break the echo

the clatter of coins leave on the Farthest Shore

but the journey will chip at our bad habits

and remind us that happiness is to live

to a ripe old age where pain

is a memory of the Dispossessed

before we rejected the banality of evil hopes.


The revolution drifts in orbit now

asking for trouble where only spirits and fire

can touch its priceless permanence, as with

love—neither sits, waiting

for someone to give it meaning

they get out there and remake

the universe on their own terms.

(For Ursula: 1929-2018, but whose mark upon speculative fiction, the world, and my own literary motivations, is eternal. Your journey was truly worth it.)

Ursula K Le Guin

Rhythmic Gambles

Photo by Ahmad Odeh on Unsplash

Rhythm is not just speed

but the thought of where the signals lead;

away, spirit, into the motion

of the universal devotion

to life beyond routine

the confines of a paper-thin screen

freedom, by any other name

a laughter of notes experiencing the game

without any fear; sacred, and devout

before the collective trance of the communal bout

whirling meditations to the bleeding and the broken

speaking without ever suffering outspoken

methodologies through the fighting,

to find out what they’re lighting and writing

and talking about, exhaustion

a sort of Faustian

gamble for the peak in breaths

that strips identity, time and flesh

to bone, where shyness will not lurk

nor stimulation shirk

the magic of connection

only the body gives direction:

Dancing with the waves of the oldest seas,

Dancing to be wholly free.

Salt the Earth

Photo by Jonas Dücker

On my lips

the beginning of a name

ransacked by shadow

before its breath was drawn.


Sunlight scatters on the wind,

prismatic sprays of receding

ash that carry us far, far

from its expectation.


Distance, the stars whisper,

is measured by the sacrifice

of the named, until none

need heart, weightless and alone.

Fae Things

Care of Shutterstock.

On the moonstruck branch

he alights, a note pouring out

into the aether, each green year

passing into the song which nurtures.


Rooted in the changeling soil

he sleeps away the stiffness

of a beating heart, triumphant

in the spilling deep.


Autumn is a dance of mushrooms

binding oaths until midwinter

steals the complexity of life

and he must find his humors elsewhere.

Scenes on the Wind

20160727_192955There are no subways in Michigan

we write them off for Eastern fare

wind in our hair

lamenting the deathly slumber

of four-wheeled streets.


Meanwhile no one

listens to the rain

our souls spatter on the lakes

in the buzzing wake

of another ghostly tale.


The sun shines

on the creaking creep

of golden dunes

swallowing our memories year by—

imagination, drifting


over the gulls and with the wolves

reach for the hands that raised

skyscrapers spearing sky

alone in Detroit

longing for the city.

Never Say Never, Space Cadets

Photo by NASA on Unsplash

Let’s take a moment to address the state of affairs which led me to take up these auspicious dares—true, the speech might yet be dubbed a pipe dream dragged up from my very seams, but in the depth of sleep I found and knew the world and hid it oh so deep. It lay somewhere past the quasar, strummed and strung out like an old sitar; a Sirius look, it held, one rendered of imperious intent but, by and large, stood nothing less than deliriously under bowed heads and thick craniums, but with none of the internal fortitude of titanium. It stood inverted to me, like the eyes of the perverted crowd looking out at me—which is to say, looking in so deep they like to think they’re taking a peep, but amidst all the scorching oxygen and vacuum flow, it’s been withered under the blow by blow until it’s nothing but a magnification of our own stratification, and the rub, well, the rub friends is that the future’s based upon a flub—that just because the light blurs out into forever, that we might endeavor to learn the word never—

Never to Cry

Never to Lie

Never to Die

When in truth there comes a time we’ll see the state we’ve set upon a dime, and find ourselves with no choice but the bow of grace, and drift away into sweet empty space.

The Great Wall

Photo by Baher Khairy

Laid end to end

Sartre’s bones

constitute the mortar


of our allegorical wall

martyred concrete

filling the gap


between mortality and

obscurity by repetitious fame

stacking high the shadows


empty sockets cast

on nameless trenches, moats

long ago stormed


but never held;

by dusk they’ve lost the words

to ending plastic patriarchy


leaving them with the bleakness

bonemeal’s philosophy extends

across the consciousness of the world.

The Garden or the Flower

By Luis Camacho
Photo by Luis Camacho.

Bewilderment begot Death’s remorse

a flower, wilting in the cup of hands

flesh made against the source

as the prince, in all his

benevolence sang,

I would give for you

a garden, love, if only you should bear

those tears with silent devotion.

She looked on its gold, its promised names

of flowers not yet birthed

but as she wept she turned away

to reside among the fields:

for in that gloried cage she knew

no place for petals time had stolen

no roots in which its name might roost.