Written by Brad Bunkers

As I wander through life, steadily advancing across an arc that connects dawn and dusk, friendships ebb and flow. Some friendships are lifelong, others fleeting, some are profound, others more superficial — all are treasured yet impermanent in the end. As I reflect back over the decades, I’m overjoyed to think about the many friends who happened to appear on my path at the exact right moment.

One such friend was Mitchell McInnis. He was not only a close friend, but a collaborator, a steadfast supporter, a confidant and a brother. A brilliant poet, Mitch had the tenacity of a cheetah and the heart of a kitten. On the surface he could sometimes come across as brash, but under all of the bravado he had a curious spirit coupled with a tender goodness so rare in this world. Mitch also had a playful exuberance — imagine a bright-eyed, big-ass grin followed by an animated jig resulting in laughter all around. I’m laughing now just thinking of it.

Like all serious poets, Mitch had the pluck to persistently hone his craft, even in the face of adversity. Throughout his life he shed light on the daily suffering, the struggles we all face, the best way he knew how — by putting pen to paper day after day after day.

Sadly, Mitch’s  journey on this earth ended too soon. He died on May 5th, 2020 at the age of 47. A true son of Great Falls, Montana, Mitch carved out his own authentic life adding creative spark wherever he landed. As a poet, copywriter, journalist, teacher, philosopher and artist he courageously traveled the United States in search of meaning and belonging. From Montana to New York City to Moorhead, Minnesota to Portland, Oregon to Wilmington, North Carolina to Las Vegas, Nevada to Las Cruces New Mexico, Mitch made a difference in the numerous lives he touched.

The first time I met Mitch was at Ripple Marketing in Bozeman, Montana. I had recently moved from Denver where I worked as an art director at multiple advertising agencies. Mitch strolled into the office and introduced himself as the new copywriter. I was immediately suspicious — I had worked with many copywriters over the years and spent way too much time correcting basic grammar and coaching copywriters on the techniques of crafting persuasive commercial copy. Then, in an instant Mitch won me over by referencing a Willem de Kooning book I had next to my desk. I was astonished that a copywriter knew anything about art and I knew at that moment we’d soon be thick as thieves.

Mitch was a rare breed, a dedicated poet who could easily bridge the gap between divergent creative pursuits. It was this interest in finding the connective tissue between poetry, art, music and culture that shaped our friendship. Mitch could bounce between avant-garde poetry and Renaissance painting in the same conversation, then effortlessly link them together to explain the common threads. He often talked about writing in painterly terms and vice versa. Our conversations were always thought-provoking and insightful, the kind of exchanges that inspired and energized me.

Even though Mitch was often the smartest person in the room, he always made it a point to lift others up. His thirst to understand and his curiosity resulted in the most vivid discussions. He loved to debate ideas but he was most interested in learning about what others thought, looking at all sides before coming to a conclusion. This open minded approach made Mitch the perfect collaborator.

In 2006 Mitch and I started HoboEye, an online international arts journal dedicated to showcasing emerging poets, artists and musicians. HoboEye was a once-in-a-lifetime passion project for both of us. At the time Mitch was working as a full-time copywriter and finishing a new book of poems. We both had full plates with work, personal pursuits and life — and yet HoboEye was often at the center of our existence. With exuberance we poured everything we had into making HoboEye a reputable online creative journal. Through our curatorial efforts we slowly built a community around HoboEye. We built a safe space for creatives around the globe to express themselves and showcase their work.

Mitch was in his element as the cofounder, editor, and curator of HoboEye. It was the perfect platform for him to not only express what poetry and art meant to him, but an opportunity for him to champion other writers and poets. With HoboEye Mitch and I fed our artistic curiosities, we gave a voice to other creatives, and carved out the artistic community we yearned for. When Mitch moved to Portland he organized an annual HoboEye poetry reading. These poetry gatherings were an extension of the online journal, designed to unite writers and celebrate all things poetry. Again, Mitch delighted in uplifting and shining a light on the talents of others.

I regret that Mitch and I eventually drifted apart once HoboEye ended and he moved to New Mexico. Although our paths were on parallel trajectories for several years, we eventually chose different routes. Like so many people who got to know Mitch, I have many more stories I could share — most make me smile and laugh, but others bring sadness and remorse. We often think of someone’s life as a singular element or a linear journey, but Mitch filled his time on earth with multiple lifetimes. He started life with not much more than a blank page and, like any great writer, he crafted his story, reinventing himself while always staying true to his inner goodness. Looking back at his life, I believe Mitch penned the perfect poem.

Rest in Peace, Dear Friend

More About Mitchell McInnis:

Mitchell McInnis held a BA in philosophy from Concordia College-Moorhead and an MFA in creative writing and literature from the University of North Carolina-Wilmington. In 1997, he was a graduate student at New York University (NYU) in order to study the work of Jacques Derrida, Jurgen Habermas and Harold Bloom, all of whom were teaching there at the time. In 2019, Mitch became a voting member of the National Book Critics Circle (NBCC). Mitch’s first book of poetry, The Missing Shade of Blue, was published in summer 2004. His second book of poems,  Dancing in the Neon Boneyard was recently published posthumously by Theran Press.

Here are a few poems Mitchell McInnis shared with me. He would often email me works in progress late at night and then call to discuss.

Potter’s Hands

single finger’s
gentle press to slight demure
allure to go deeper
slow even thrust
tight walls’ responsive resistance
gentle friction to slip
finger’s movement
and final relent
clay opens to potter’s hands.

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Memories of Play

 I’ve no photos of the old man. Just this fruit crate cornucopia he framed with braided saplings. Memories of play frame that life askew, my sister dancing, singing, frolicking madly down the marble corridor where it hung.

California abandoned the asylum in 1958. A fit of modernism. Three years later, after a steady diet of disappointment and daily observation, the old man moved us into ward D.

He’d been working as a farm hand since I was born. Trailers and sharecropper shacks put a vice on his head. Booze followed. And bloody knuckles. She threatened to leave, to take us. He hatched his greatest plan.

He became part-time viscera inspector at the nearby slaughterhouse, searching for signs of parasites. He diligently returned home by dark. They picked fruit for pay on weekends. Sunday dinners outdoors. A thin bounty of flank steaks and citrus. Penny candy from miles away.

The old man planted a lemon tree beside ward D. It still stands. Sweetest lemons you’ll ever sample.

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