Separation and Renewal: An Ode to Abuse Survivors

To all those affected by the devil Tyler Carpenter (@Adarael), whose full scope of crimes against those he professed to care about have only lately come to public knowledge. This one is close to my community, and many I hold dear, and who have given me a home lo these past few years.

Separation and Renewal


The city expels exhaust

tenuous as the wind which precedes

a volcano. She traces his ashes

through the commotion, the pregnant

light nested in separation;

all they want is to gather

it into themselves, his lies,

the history the heat

has orphaned among faces

that crack like teeth.


She is more than a notch

but to the magma each she

was nothing until it

finally erupted, just a shallow hole

into which light flooded

a semblance of hope:

what each might be

born again in the valley

with the boundless community

of the gathering dawn.

DfHSlFiVQAAlP2YTyler was a game developer for Harebrained Schemes, for Monolith Productions and Xbox before that. He ran shows in conjunction with Hyper RPG, Zombie Orpheus, and GeekSpaceTV. And he spent his days grooming, isolating and abusing women, cultivating sympathy from his communities and ingraining himself in the hearts and minds of even the most wary. He is a predator, a very skilled one. But he is finally facing justice, at least from his victims, from the community, and from his employers. In a truly just world, he would be rotting in jail at the least.

Blessed be these communities, who have banded together in support and love, and are working together to actively recover. Believe women. Deny abusers any ground in which to hide. Grow stronger, together.

To read more, you can find information on the situation here:

  • (Though take with a grain of salt, as this article also gives him far too much play and ability to shape a martyrdom message)
  • I would post the statements from the abused, at this time, but I have no interest in giving them the additional harassment that tends to come from furthered visibility. They have said their piece. Search them out if you will — there are eight that I know of, at the time of this posting. This is a traumatic situation and I have no interest in increasing the trauma with which they must deal.
  • If any of you think, “Well, he apologized, so he must be trying at least,” I’m sorry to tell you that, no. He thrives on attention and validation. A recent transcript from someone close to him of DMs behind the scenes as all this has gone down shows that even as he presents one thing in public, he will still cut down victims from behind. DfHtqhpUEAA8BXF




Photo by Clem Onojeghuo

In the shade of a Willow Tree

the heart of dreams took root:

Keats, fertilizing the shape of men

with flesh-wrought words

turbulent, wind-blown

beyond the cusp and ken of mortal grunting

a passion of time, a labor of spirit

the blooms to which even sunlight bows

while apples, stirring thoughts of gravity

tempt us by the notion:

what lies within.

Princess, Quaintly

david-clode-341216-unsplashBy night the singing stars

glorified the pumpkin moon.

The princess, awaiting her carriage

asked a frog

how a prince would benefit her tale

before the frog puckered

and she roasted him for frog legs—

so convincing an argument he had made

she thought she’d be a prince herself

by the magic of consumption.

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.