The last I heard,
my Korean friend Sung
was in the mountains
fighting for his freedom
because he’d been pursuing
his intoxicated truth in
my homeland Southern towns.
Before he enlisted, he was incarcerated
in a federal district penitentiary in Louisiana.
Cocaine and burglary, I hear, are multiplied opposites
so they took his green card
and that was that for he and I.
Before that was Knoxville,
where the stories became less funny,
like when he stole all his neighbors’ electronics
and slept in his first cell
the next night.
Before that, Texas,
where he got at least 3 DUIs in one semester
and was nearly collapsed on the interstate
passing two semis
through the middle.
But first, we were friends,
quiet misfits with creative addictions
unaware of the surreal nature
we tried to make more realistic.
Now he stands guard
at the gate of the Armageddon
knowing he can't stop anything
and the best he can do
is get obliterated on OB Lager
and tune his violin to a flat E-A-D-G.
The last thing Sung told me
was that, no matter what,
he’d let me know
if something happened to him.
Our communication since has been as silent
as before an atomic holocaust.
