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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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Last Mile |
