The Black Napkin Volume 1 Issue 3 - Page 31


other forms of boredom

by Jared Duran

fall around the head of the artist

who contemplates placing his in the oven,

though there is little dignity in death by convection.

Men of costume,

men of coat and tails,

men with mouths full of feathers

know the best way to keep

the mine open and profitable

is to eat the canary before it goes down.

Men of uniform,

men of spinning chamber,

men with lead, neck ties, agendas—

few things are more frightening

than men of certainty and means

enough to buy influence and worldview.

The wet season brings rusty joints

down with heavy rain. Doors struggle to open

and close as the moisture swells and expands

wood, hair, a lay-about disposition, and a stay-in-bed notion.

Sparks of anger,

sparks of lost and futile,

sparks know ash, and strain

not to collect and fill the corners

with heavy thought, self-defeating prophecy.

Ash of sigh,

ash of wrong and stubborn,

ash kicked from the hoof of a mule

who won’t so much as look at the plow,

much less drag it through the fields.

Suns set themselves.

There is brooding to be done.