GAS Featured Poet/Artist: Eric Brunet

 Eric Brunet is a poet, photographer, graphic artist, and satirist. He lives in the Mission Valley of western Montana and, despite recent mobility challenges due to a hereditary neurological disease, continues to venture into the wilderness. His photography has been featured in various galleries and magazines. His artwork, poetry, and satire has been published in a variety of literary journals and online sites. 

Rise

Catch Yourself

Not being able to stop thinking is an affliction,

entirely normal, and the reason for sleepless nights

in contemplation of glaring algebra teachers

and pink horizons speckled with approaching drones.

Better to be a wailing child stopped instantly

by a perfectly-arced dirt bomb to the head.

I grew up with two boys who once shot each other 

in the ass with a shotgun just to gauge severity. 

They were living in the now, breathless with laughter. 

The greater part of human pain is unnecessary.

You'll need to do some remodeling. Rip up that red shag carpet

and put in a skylight. The steps to meditation should not be fuzzy

or poorly lit. Wear shoes with good traction.

The true nature of space and time is slippery.

As children, we learned the nuances of a canoe

because we didn't want to drown. As adults, we own

canoes that collect dust in the rafters of cluttered garages.

Like drunken archeologists, we prop ladders

at impossible angles to retrieve relics from a reckless past.

Catch yourself says the guru in you. Stop thinking

for a few moments and breathe. No mind. Just breath.

The universe will never say It's not you, it's me. 

Unmarked Snow

Badminton In A Tempest

I should inform you I am armed,

anodynes have not slowed me.

Here’s the thing: it’s dark.

Remedies have been a distraction.

Those things that seemed harmless

are now fully in charge. I bend

backwards to the river, to wash

my face or drown. It started

with wordplay, a dictionary fetish.

After years of obsession, entire cities

have been reduced to confetti. 

Thoughts are birds in a windstorm,

swirls of feather unseen in the gloom,

announcing themselves by touching your face.

Kicking Horse

Sacred Path of the Warrior

Had a case of the Mondays so I caught a fish

with my bare hands, chased a tornado,

and rode on the world’s biggest rollercoaster.

Next day: bungee jumping from a hot air balloon,

Tuesday is spaghetti night and roller disco.

Arrested for stealing a motorcycle on hump day

but posted bail and saw both a solar and lunar eclipse.

Learned Swahili on Thursday, got a tattoo,

and went skinny dipping at the aquarium.

Built a catapult on Friday and shouted “Drinks are on me!”

at a dive bar on the wrong side of the tracks.

Spent most of Saturday creating a cult

and experiencing weightlessness. Milked a cow.

Sunday was a day of rest under the vast silence

of stars, most of them unnamed.  

Last Mile