Eric Brunet
OLD RECORDS
Being horrible and innocent is the way
we will end it. Therapy just stories
of driving everyone home drunk
while fiddling with the radio.
No one envisioned we’d be so stubborn,
refusing light in a tomb of our own making.
I listen to the works of Liszt, Malediction,
a word uttered to bring destruction,
each note gently in its place.
LOVE IS NOT ENOUGH
The hellion romantic rarely inhabits a land
of practicality. Someone, somewhere far away,
is practicing acceptance by looking at clouds
with no expectations. Flamingos go door-to-door
with pamphlets on the dangers of plastic,
a blind woman shuffles naked down the street
and swings at any noise with a rolled newspaper.
This is what the prophets spoke of when entering
cities aflame. What beggars mean when laughing.
It’s not physics but gravity is a calling card.
“Sometimes the hardest thing is the right thing,” she said
through tears. From this distance, ears like seashells.
Eric Brunet is a poet and photographer living in the Mission Valley of Montana.