B.K. Poetry

Hey there! I'm Kenny.

I believe every voice deserves to be heard—especially the ones that have been overlooked. As the founder of Write Club, I work with emerging writers to find their truth and power through storytelling.

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Just a quick hello.

Hey there. My name is Brennan (he/they) I’m a Queer 30-year-old Métis poet and author and this is my dedicated writing blog.

  • ✏️ Fic Writers: I run a transformative works archive called Fanfiction.lol, designed to be for fun, silly, low-stakes fandom. Sign-ups are open!
  • ⛰️ Looking for a clean, writer-focused Tumblr theme? Check out Foothills! A minimal, accessible theme I built specifically for poets and writers. It’s free and open-source.
  • 📚 I have published 8 books independently, including poetry collections, creative non-fiction, and academic work, available on Amazon and as digital downloads on Gumroad (ePubs & PDFs).
  • 🍓 I’m co-founder and lead developer at Berry House, a values-driven web studio building fast, accessible JAMstack websites and thoughtful content for independent creators and mission-led organizations.
  • If you’d like to donate, click here.

If you’re a writer, like this post or send me a message and I’ll be sure to follow you! And if you wanna get to know a little more about me, feel free to keep reading after the cut. 💖

Keep reading

Infinity Bus / Library of Babel

6pm & the Canadian winter Sun is gone.
Early night holds the kitchen as a photograph.
Lamp, frost, & a boy’s small face.

The walls are Yukon gold & butter.
Fridge, chairs, lampshade,
all the same piss yellow—
his parent’s cigarette
after cigarette.

Fingers pull crayons out of the tin.
Brunette for the hair—orange for the house.
Four circles, four sticks, door too small to enter—
everyone is holding hands.

His mom left a paperback on the table,
soft at the spine, tape across its cover:
a library of hexagons, its pages every page.

Infinity Bus idles @ the curb of the table,
doors folded open,
headlights the walls

Down the hall, his father has phone
up against his ear, puffing a memo,
ash lengthening. a way around severance
he says—
the illustrators, no
the agents instead.

Anthropic.

The boy lifts his head.
He knows that word means of people.
He turns over the yellow crayon
peeling the paper off.

He decides to draw the corner
top of the page black,
where the sun is supposed to go.