He pops ambien to chase day.
Remembers something ancestral, something that blooms from the stem where his brain first split from it’s body and produced the opus of what he now calls “life”.
Logos. He remembers the root and you know it when you speak with him for he gifts words like wildfires and they spread around your body and leave nothing but the barebones in the end, the ash and the skeleton. He dissolves you to this only to claim it is not him, but the weather.
This is a poem about Jeremy Brunger written to the only mass who will ever care enough to bear it’s witness as a fruit and not a burden.
He takes ambien to chase the day visions, wandering blind through streets he reads stop signs as his skin and cannot enter; this is the problem. He is a perpetualist.
Lonely, lonely man.
When he wakes, he walks in my head, and throughout my sorrow. I taste him when the pen is down, and taste him when the pen is up, and remember him every time I am alone.
I salute the moon with his kiss, and he’d hate this, and I salute that as well.
We are human, we are flesh
we decay, we die, we need
to forget. We have to forget we are sleeping God’s
for the day the babies wake to rattle the cage
there will be no earth to hold them
and we will fall free as bliss
into an eternity of thoughts never once