The straight man would desire
a righteous set of laughs.
The jester kicks for him — there is no
room in the absurd for someone so bent on reaction.
He seeks the jokes; he hears them.
He’d love to live in them.
But some men are not made for humour.
All men are made for the worms.

Here, together, we sing as loud as the island.
Desecrated, yes. But held together.
She talked through the screen,
told him that such things remain fertile
with humorous potential.
But he is not the cosmic jester.
He does not hold that ball and staff.
He can barely crack the skeleton of a smile
at that which has been misplaced or worse.

In an inherent future,
laced with the poison of
faith without reason,
a country shook the ground with
the force of twenty loud Behemoths.
Persecuted to the grind of stones upon a chest.

[JA Bolduc is a 19 year old poet from the deep woods of Windham, Maine. He currently resides in Canada and would like to thank everyone who is reading his work.]

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