Monthly Archives: February 2025

What I Keep

(Photo by Kiona’s K-9s)

What I Keep

You are my human.
I cock an ear at your word.
I wear your pendant in my name.
I backpocket a chip with the way home,
though that I could never forget.

Mornings I trace your footsteps,
my shadow twinned to yours.
When you sit, I plant myself
like a sapling at your feet,
growing roots in your presence.

Your voice is my north star,
your hands map my favorite places.
I collect your smiles like tennis balls,
store them deep in my chest
where I keep my most precious things.

They say I am your good boy,
but they don’t know half of it—
you are my everything-person,
my always-home,
my heart’s own weather.

What If?

What If?

What if stars were synapses?
It would explain the trillions,
Each thought a pinprick of light
In the vast neural night.


What if quasars were eurekas?
Brilliant as all suns combined,
Ancient revelations still traveling
Through the cosmic mind.


What if black holes were sorrows?
Infinitely black, seemingly endless,
Consuming all light and matter
Until time becomes meaningless.


What if the multiverse were dreams?
Colorful clouds of possibility,
Where new thoughts take shape
In the cosmic probability.


What if comets were memories?
Streaking through consciousness,
Periodic returns of communal wisdom
Through celestial vastness.


What if galaxies were ideas?
Spiral arms of structured thought,
Rotating around central truths
That gravity and wisdom wrought.


What if the universe is consciousness?
Expanding ever quicker with self realism,
Each observer a point of awareness
In the grand cosmic mechanism.


Perhaps we are universe dreaming,
Of stars and souls and spaces between,
The edge of mind and cosmos blurring
Into one quantum stream.

The Home Row

So You Want To Be A Writer

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.