Sung is in the mountains
working for his freedom
now because he was pursuing
it his way
in the land of the free.
Before that was prison,
the federal district penitentiary
in Louisiana,
named after Louis XVI, I think,
because Sung's way was
cocaine,
and so they took his
green card like it was nothing.
Before that was Knoxville,
where the stories became less funny,
like when he stole all his neighbors electronics
and went to jail for the first time
the next day.
Before that was Texas,
where he got at least 3 DUIs
in one semester
and almost died on the interstate
passing two semis
through the middle of them.
Before that we were friends,
quiet misfits with an addiction
called creativity
unaware of the surreal nature
we tried to make more
realistic.
Now he stands guard
at the gate of the apocalypse
guarding it somehow,
and he knows he can't stop it,
and it's the best he can do,
and he knows
that he walked there steadily over
the years.
The last thing Sung told me
was he'd let me know
no matter what
if something happened to him.
And I haven't heard anything
