Jonny Bolduc, poet/author

08/02/2026

Litany

the only thing god told you when you were born
was
"keep it safe"
as he passed you
a small, open flame

07/27/2026

there's a pulse through these days. little spikes of spiraling, a momentary loss of control, like driving over a patch of black ice and quickly correcting. every generation has moments where the stomach drops out of the world and it seems like the center is going to collapse. and here's the thing: it does. it has. it will.
extinctions, wars boil over and flood geopolitical boundaries and kill and bloodlet the earth, the failure of the state, the failure of the system, the descent into collective madness, the rise of a despot just like the despot before and the forever cycle of power.
great experiments fail.
and i know i have a tremendous amount of privilege to live in a place where i have felt, for the most part, like i am not on the knifes edge of being disappeared by my government. but now, these days, i feel the car jerk and skid into the soft soil on the shoulder of the road. i am mid-fishtail, trying not to overcorrect, trying not to end up dead in the ditch.
because these dark days a madness is rising up from the dregs, a familiar one. McCarthyism resurrected--never really died, now the buzzword to hang and draw upon is "woke". the forced disappearance of citizens, the criminalization of the op-ed. we don't want them here; the Child Study and Human Development major, the judges, the intellectuals. the empire, never gilded and great, but at least serviceable, is crumbling in real time and we are watching it through reaction bait TikTok clips.
and we can speak like this is new, we can speak as if the warnings weren't etched in the storming of the capital. he said he would root out the vermin, and he is. he said he would grasp onto this with clenched fists and he has. he said he would dehumanize and perpetuate and divide and make real and imagined enemies pay with the long arm of the judiciary, and he has. he has done it all, and he continues to drive the car into oncoming traffic. all i--we, anyone with a pulse, who isn't infected with the hatred infecting the GOP--can do is blare the horn.
But look, in between the soul eating dread and the want to not inhabit this physical space, i have to admit that i am fascinated with destruction. Aren’t we all?
I was a reporter for a daily newspaper. On october 2018, mechanic falls, maine, the mill caught fire and the town gathered on the bridge to watch. a pluming pillar of black smoke seen from the sky. children lifted up on shoulders to get a better view. the lapping flames, the wall of heat, the endless procession of firetrucks like a parade.
i was with them, on the bridge over the river watching the mill burn. and i saw the ladders on the fire trucks lift high up into the air, hoses uselessly spitting water onto the mass of fire. i wondered if watching a town, a city fall into fire was a shared part of humanity, like gathering on a hillside to watch rome or london or edo be razed and ravaged by flame.
an entire countryside caught like dry kindling. a melting country, black out drunk around a campfire, singing wagon wheel poorly plucked on an out of tune guitar. watching with glee as the redwood forests are ripped out of the soil by winds. kneeling over an ant hill with a magnifying glass. watching a betta fish smash up against the side of a bowl to attack a mirror.
and it’s all the same, right? the world is a stage. the theater is on fire and the emergency exits are choked by flame. flicking a smoldering cigarette stub into a gas can. the truism of a thirteen year old boy in 2010 with a poster of heath ledger’s joker taped onto the concrete wall of his room in the unfinished basement. a fossil fire lifting above this entire country. a country torn open, wide.
some people just want to watch the world burn. and on the bridge over the burning mill in a sleepy mill town in Maine i am one of them. i am mesmerized, watching the consumption and destruction and i am like a toddler with an ipad.
And I expect the destruction to reach me. If I want the beams of light to shine down and heal me from the firmament, I need to expect and to prepare for the collapsing.
And what’s enough? To bitch on facebook? To know, in my heart, that those who keep taking jenga blocks from our democracy are fu***ng idiots?
What about words? What about words and deeds? What about a song from deep in the soul? The one thing that cannot be razed or chained?
Why don’t we
sing a staying song.
sing a song for the broken bodies still rising up from the blankets each morning.
sing a song for a broken treaty spurting oil.
sing a song for the houses without heat, the sputtering furnace, the cold flame fading into bitter winter.
sing a song for the young who have died. sing a song for the young who do not know how to stay alive.
sing a song for the trans kid staring at a statistic, fighting not to become it.
sing a song for the house on fire. sing a song for yourself, for being here, for staying.
sing a song for the cliff crumbling into the sea. sing a song for the body that does not wish to be caged.
sing a song for a soul that yearns to be free.
sing a song for the lost poets,
sing a song for the smashed lyres, the half-trodden journeys, the beaten back dreams.
sing a song for those who have gone through hell and stumbled accidentally into paradise.
sing a song for those who sleep in streets with head against brick, shivering.
sing a song for those who died before they could be happy.
sing a song for those shot out of the sky before they could swoop across the ancient blue horizon.
sing a song for those who lifted off this earth like fog rising, who died quietly, without speaking.
sing a song for the raided sanctum,
sing a song for the trafficked,
sing a song behind a cage or curtain or closet.
sing a song while you can
before they zip tie your beak shut.
before they burn the breviary of empathy.
sing a new forever, sing a protest song.

07/27/2026

This link has around 12 books of my poems, poetry, and prose.

I have pay-what-you-can PDFs of my work available!
https://archive.org/details/682008099-how-to-die-alone-in-your-bed-part-2-1
https://www.scribd.com/user/48200062/Jonny-Bolduc

https://ko-fi.com/jonnybolduc

Become a supporter of Jonny Bolduc today!

07/26/2026

07/14/2026

Found a box of copies of my out of print book from 2017, DAWNDARK. Let me know if you would like a copy!

07/13/2026

Eternal Despots
BY JONNY BOLDUC

CHARACTERS:
(all characters are any age, any gender. Feel free to adapt pronouns in the play to suit the preference of the production)

The Fool/Foolking.
A jester in a room full of co**ses. Transforms into a cruel king.

The Knight:
A dutiful knight.

The Bard/The Bardking:
An emaciated bard and reluctant ruler.

The JESTER/THE ADVISOR:
The FOOL’s replacement. In Act Two, the ADVISOR.

CO**SE KING:
A echo of eternity and the voice of past tyrants.

ENSEMBLE:
Various nobles, mob members, a select few are the Chorus in Darkness. (MURDERER/CITIZEN/IRON THIEF/BREAD THIEF)

MOTHER:
A hostage.

DAUGHTER:
A hostage.

OLD MAN:
A babbling old man.

COUNCILOR DAVIS:
A tired public servant.

DARLENE SMITH:
A star rising through the GOP.

THE FOOL, a JESTER, moves about an empty hall, flailing, as if drunk. A fully set table feast with libations and food. There is a throne with the skeletal co**se of the king overlooking the stage. Remains of NOBLES sit at the table.

THE FOOL takes a skewer with a roasted chicken attached and swings it like a swordsman.

FOOL:
MY LORD! Your enemy has been felled! As a knight of virtue, I ask for nothing in return, but A POULTRY SUM FOR MY HEROIC DEED!

The FOOL laughs hysterically. Takes a bite of the chicken like a beast, and spits it out. Urgh.

Ah. I forgot. It appears fresh, but the flesh is rotten.

Beat.

How long have I been here?

Beat. Grabs a bottle of wine from the table, and moves to the throne of the DEAD KING.

My King! A quandering query for you. What will not rot with time and grows more potent with age? A tiny pickle betwixt thy legs? Bashes head with bottle, as if in punishment. NO! No vulgarity in the shadow of the throne! My King, I am sorry. I mean to say, if the feast is festering with mold, perhaps it is time for the wine to flow!

The FOOL sits on the edge of the throne, and opens the KING’s skeletal jaw. The FOOL pours wine into it.

Waste not a drop, my lord. Do not spill. Spillage is not comely for a king, nor the lowly maid with a flummoxed bosom. I serve my own master, for I am both fool and maid in this rancid hall. If you drip, my king, the fruit flies will swarm upon the scarlet puddle, and the ants will become drunkards marching, hup two three four six nine twelve forty-seven!

May I indulge in a swig, my King? My lips are parched. My skin is tight and blemished. I am starving. Please, let me sip.

The FOOL reels backward, almost falling over, and smacks themselves with the bottle, again.

You are right, your majesty. A fool must always be sober. A fool must always be clean, lest the grit of sin infects the holy purity of your chlamydia-riddled genitalia.

COWERING.

NO, KING! DO NOT KICK ME! IT WAS MERELY A JEST!

Looking to the dead at the table.

They thought it was funny, lord. My King. Has your mood lifted with the wine? Regretfully, from the whopping bottle you hurtled at me, I feel an egg beginning to form above my eye. Takes an egg from pocket, and cracks it over their head. I guess you could say I’m an EGGHEAD!

The FOOL looks around as if expecting applause or laughter.

Dead crowd.

Pause.

Am I dead?

Pause. Scoffs. What does it matter? It doesn’t change anything. APPROACHES a skeletal DEAD NOBLEMAN and bows.

Sir, May I sit beside you? I must rest my feet. I feel an ache in my bones. I’m sure you can relate. How is your family? Who are you? Did your skin shimmer in the sunlight? Did you eat until full and drink until drunk? Who are you? Who were you? No answer? What ails you, friend? Other than death? What have you seen? A great blackness stretching for eternity? An empty hall headed by a king with a boner--sorry, made of bones, rather? My friend, perhaps this will give life to you. I think…I think I figured out the great mystery. What all of this means. A beat. Then, hysterics. The pellet with the poison's in the vessel with the pestle. The chalice from the palace has the brew that is true. You supped from the cup that brought swift doom to the room.

Looks around expectantly.

Nothing happened.

That wasn’t it.

S**t.

TO CO**SE.

I remember. All of you; cruel. I was nothing but a bastard, a scumspit s**tstain that could juggle. You cut me with pairing knives for fun, rubbed my nose in f***l piles and pi**ed in my wine. You deserve to be bone; I deserve to feast. I deserve to f**k and love and I deserve to leave this crumbling hall.

Did I not die? Why? Am I still alive?

Through the show, a HEAP has been lying next to the table. The HEAP groans, and sits up. Slowly, painfully, the BARD is revealed; an emaciated zombie-like figure. The bard crawls to the side of the throne, and shaking, groaning, and moaning, pulls out a lute. The BARD gives the lute a strum. The BARD’s fingers start to bleed.

FOOL:
To the BARD.
I didn’t notice you before. Who are you?

BARD:
Strums and whimpers in pain.

No.

FOOL:
What do you mean, no? That doesn’t make sense.

How are you?

BARD:
Strums again.

No.

FOOL:
Can you say anything but no?

BARD:

Yes.

FOOL:
What is your name? Let me guess--no.

BARD:

No.

FOOL:
No? I can’t guess?

BARD:
Yes.

FOOL:
Yes, I can’t guess? Or yes, your name is no? You know what?
Just play your lute, you leprous filthbag.

BARD:
No.
STRUMS lute. Bleeds.

FOOL:
This riveting conversation has left me famished. Would you like some food, Bard? Are you hungry? You look (sizes the bard up.) unwell.

BARD:
Yes.

FOOL:
Well, lucky for you, this food is rot. Let me prove it to you.
The FOOL grabs an apple and bites it.
Fresh. FRESH. IT’S FRESH!

TAKES A bite from a PASTRY. Gorges.

For the first time in eternity, my belly is full.

Rises. Moves towards the throne.

Play! Strum, you bonely co**se of a bard!

BARD:
Feebly reaches for the table.
Hunger.

FOOL:
PLAY! PLAY! PLAY!

THE BARD begins to strum. The FOOL sings.

A throne of bones.
Crumbling, dust.
An iron sword succumbs to rust.
History is terror.
There is nothing left.

Grabs the KING’s SKULL and rips it off.

Know, foul tyrant, that the fool has finally conquered death.

MY BASTARD BITCH OF A KING! I OFFER YOU NO COUNCIL. NO QUARTER FOR A HUNG THIEF!

It is my time to reign.

Holding the King’s head, the FOOL leaps up onto the table and holds the King’s skull up to the light. THE FOOL jumps down from the table, and removes the King’s skeleton from the throne. THE FOOL sits on the throne, the skull of the king sitting on the FOOL’s lap.

Silence.

Well.

I’m bored.

The BARD slowly pulls their body towards the table, like a worm.

A loud rap on the door.

A visitor? What cursed traveler would willingly amble into this decaying hall?

A knight wanders into the hall.

KNIGHT:
Hello. Sorry to let myself in, but the door was unlocked.

FOOL:
Unlocked? What? I spent a decade pounding upon the lock. Hammer and chisel taken to the frame; I wept, for I could not open it.

KNIGHT:
I pulled.

FOOL:
Oh, that must have been the matter. I was pushing a pull door.

KNIGHT:
Poor fool. The door was open the entire time.

FOOL:
No. Not a chance.

KNIGHT:
It was slightly ajar. But I tire of this.

I heard that a king died.

FOOL:
The king died an eternity ago. He’s always been dead. He was never alive.

KNIGHT:
Well, that’s not what I heard. I heard you ripped the head off the king while he sat in his throne.

FOOL:
I ripped the skull from a skeleton. Hardly a crime.

KNIGHT:
A fool ripping the head off his king?

FOOL:
I am a fool no longer, knave. I am a king.

KNIGHT:
I have heard of the foul deeds of fools, but never a usurper desecrating upon a throne of bones. A crime that must be answered for.

The KNIGHT unsheathes a sword.

FOOL:
Justice. Ha. Where was justice when I sat among co**ses for eternity, while stars flickered and died, with no water or wine to parch my lips? Where was justice when the blessed king carved his initials into my palm with a dull blade for dropping his goblet of libation? Where was justice when the king slaughtered my daughter in front of me and rolled with laughter as I wept and cursed the heavens? You come now? When you perceive a mere bump in the ordered hierarchy? You only care about the fool when he threatens the king, not as he is carved upon or beaten or starved.

But look upon me now, on this throne, and tell me, who else should sit here? We are in an empty room. There are no reverberations, no echoes. Just eternity. Who should be king?

Should you?

KNIGHT:
No. I am a knight.

FOOL:
Who, then?

KNIGHT:
But you are a--

FOOL:
I am a king.

KNIGHT:
I don’t believe it.

FOOL:
Kneel.

The KNIGHT does not.
Something awakens in the FOOL. A command.

KNEEL.

The KNIGHT KNEELS.
THE FOOL BECOMES KING.

For whom do you bend the knee?

KNIGHT:
You, my lord.

FOOLKING:
So. I ask you now, who do you serve?

KNIGHT:
You, my lord.

FOOLKING:
Thank you. You may begin your service by cleaning the co**ses from the dinner table.

KNIGHT:
Yes, my lord.

The KNIGHT cleans the table and removes the skeletons, as the KING sits idly on the throne. There is another bout of rapping on the door.

JESTER:
(O.S)
How do I open the door?

Overlapping
KNIGHT:
Push.

FOOLKING:
Pull.

It’s slightly ajar.

JESTER enters.

JESTER:
I heard there is a new king.

KNIGHT:
Yes.

FOOLKING:
Have you come to jest?

JESTER:
Yes. I guess.

KING:
Then sit.

JESTER:
At the table?

FOOLKING:
Sure.

JESTER:
You are a kind king. Most would have the fool sit on the floor.

THE BARD has finally pulled themselves up into a chair, and is slowly reaching for a piece of bread. The KNIGHT casually strides towards the BARD and cuts off the BARD’s hand.

BARD:
Screaming. No!

KING:

To the knight.

Wait.

I’m not sure if we thought that through, Sir. How is the cretin going to strum the lute without a hand?

KNIGHT:
Hmm. I do miss his jaunty tunes.

KING:
To the BARD.

Can you play without a hand?

BARD:
No.

FOOLKING:
Hm. Well, you are no use if you are not producing music. Should we kill you?

BARD:
Yes.

FOOLKING:
Wait. Can you play the flute?

BARD:
No.

KNIGHT:
Liar. I saw you play the flute a ten-day ago. Or a ten year ago. A ten-century--

FOOLKING:
Tosses the BARD a flute.

The BARD weeps, and using the non-amputated hand, begins to play a discordant melody.

FOOLKING:
Great fun. Now, let us turn our attention back to the main issue bubbling up from the dregs of incontinence. Kindness. No. No, I don’t think so.

JESTER:
No? What do you mean?

FOOLKING:
I don’t know what kind of king I am. I don’t think I am kind. I feel more fool than king.

JESTER:
So be a fool.

FOOLKING:
What?

JESTER:
Be a foolish king.

KNIGHT:
He’s calling you stupid.

FOOLKING:
Are you calling me stupid?

JESTER:
No, my lord--

FOOLKING:
And why are you not speaking in rhyme? Why are you not entertaining me? Why do I feel so GODDAMN SAD ALL THE TIME?

To KNIGHT.

Seize the fool.

The KNIGHT seizes the fool.

Bring him to me.

The KNIGHT does so.
The FOOLKING takes a blade from his pocket.

You must be taught of cruelty, jester. You must be taught your place. Grabs the JESTER’s palm.

To KNIGHT. What are my initials? I forgot.

KNIGHT shrugs.

Alright. A K for king. Carves a K in the JESTER’s palm as the JESTER screams in pain. The FOOLKING lets go.

What have you learned?

JESTER:
Through tears.

The Spanish wine is p**sy-water,
The English have foul daughters,
The catacombs are the only draw
Across the channel and abroad.
I wish they would wear pants in France
For when the ladies come to dance
We laugh, laugh, laugh.--

KNIGHT and KING howls with laughter.

KING:
Sit down.
JESTER sits.

Another RAP at the door.

Come in.

NOBLES stream in and sit at the table, chatting, passing chalices of wine and plates of food.
The BARD’s flute playing has been reduced to a few random notes sporadically.

FOOLKING:
I am bored. Claps hands. Come here, fool.

JESTER approaches the table.

Tell me. Before eternity beckoned, did you have a family?

JESTER:
Yes. A wife, and a daughter.

KING:
To the KNIGHT.
Bring them in.

JESTER:
What?

KNIGHT:
Throwing two women at the KING’s feet.
Here.

FOOLKING:
What are your names?

WIFE:
I am...Eliza-

FOOLKING:
Eliza. You may leave.

WIFE:
I’m…I’m not leaving…

JESTER:
Honey. Honey, go. I swear, it will be alright. It will be alright.

WIFE runs offstage.

FOOLKING:
Now. Who is this?

DAUGHTER:
I am..

JESTER:
Please. Don’t.

FOOLKING:
You know what I am going to do?

JESTER:
This has…this has happened before. It will happen again.

FOOLKING:
I am bored.

FOOLKING stabs the DAUGHTER. JESTER loudly weeps as the NOBLES turn to laugh. KNIGHT drags the DAUGHTER offstage.

FOOLKING claps.

JESTER:
Through tears.
Yes, my king?

FOOLKING:
Wine.

JESTER goes to the table, and fumbles to pour a chalice of wine. As the JESTER returns to the THRONE, he spills the wine. The KNIGHT seizes the JESTER.

FOOLKING:
You come to my hall and spill my wine? What manner of creature are you?

JESTER:
A…a fool, your majesty.

FOOLKING:
Give me your other palm.

JESTER:
Yes, my king.
Determination and grit as the FOOLKING carves his other palm.

FOOLKING:
Release him.

KNIGHT does.

Say something funny.

JESTER:
In a fluid motion, the JESTER wrestles the knife from the KING and uses it to slit his throat.

FOOLKING:
That…that was your best joke yet.

Choking on blood.

I’m…I’m bored.

KING dies. As the KING dies, so do the NOBLES and the KNIGHT. JESTER looks around the empty hall. The BARD rises, brushes off his robe, and exits.

JESTER:
The enemy…the enemy…has been…felled.

With intensity.

The door.

I must find…
The…

Door..

Begins to shamble towards the door.

No. Not

Door…

JESTER stops in their tracks. Moves to the table. THE JESTER takes a skewer with a roasted chicken attached and swings it like a swordsman.

MY LORD! Your enemy has been felled! As a knight of virtue, I ask for nothing in return, but A POULTRY SUM FOR MY HEROIC DEED!


END SCENE

SCENE 2

AT RISE, the BARD wanders through the dark and comes upon a tree, collapsing. With great effort, the BARD takes water from their pouch and, shaking, brings it to their lips. Just as the BARD is about to drink, they convulse.

The actor who played the FOOLKING, now dressed in rags, stumbles upon the tree where the BARD is heaving.

FOOLKING:
You. I know you.

BARD:
A whisper.

No.

KING:
You escaped. You…you walked out the door. I escaped…I walked out the door. I had my throat cut, and still, I walked out the door. How? It…doesn’t make sense. Will…will you tell me how?

BARD:
No.

FOOLKING:
Fair. I supposed these things can’t be explained. You led me through out the door, through the deep woods, out of madness. You brought me back. I owe my life to you. You…you are destined. Blessed. Touched by divinity. You have a divine right to claim all of this.

BARD:
Loudly, with inexplicable strength.

NO.

FOOLKING:
Yes.

I will stay with you.

BARD collapses, and KING cradles them, gently giving them water to drink. The BARD wakens.

FOOLKING:
In a previous life, I was a king. I can remember it, but the memory is fading fast, now only glimmers of what once was. A dusty hall, trapped in death.

But…but thanks to you, in all your inexplicable wonder, it as if I was born anew with death. My friend, I am no longer a king. I no longer rule. I serve you. You are no longer bound to me, or anyone else. I am bound to you. I will serve as your steadfast guard, and your advisor.

The FOOLKING becomes the ADVISOR.

BARD:
No. I do not wish to have you as my advisor. I do not wish to be king. I wish to sleep.

ADVISOR:
Huh. You can speak.

BARD:
I could always speak. I just… preferred the silence.

ADVISOR:
You don’t need to embrace it yet, my kind Bard. You are destined to rule, and your true fate will come knocking, bounding, juggling.

BARD:
I…I just want to sleep.

ADVISOR:
So..sleep. You’re the King--

BARD:
I AM NOT THE KING.

ADVISOR:
Woah, okay. Sure, yeah, you’re not the king. Still, go to sleep. It’s been a long…eternity.

The BARD lays down their head and sleeps. As the BARD sleeps, the former Nobles, now clad in rags, come to the stage, rabbling, nervous--a jittery MOB.

ADVISOR:
Please, please! Order, order!

BARD:
The BARD awakens, slowly rises, and takes out a lute. The BARD strums a chord and sings:

CALM.
In synchronized movement, the MOB sits in a circle around the BARD.

The BARD plays another chord.

BARD:
Order.

Like a game of duck duck goose, the BARD goes around the circle and lays a hand on each member of the MOB. After the BARD touches them, they go off and complete a task: farming, crafting--the actors can make a choice. They have formed a society.

BARD:
Overlooking the MOB at peace.

Peace.

Now, I am going to sleep.

The BARD lays against the tree and sleeps. As soon as the BARD is asleep, two of the MOB begin to fight. One slays the other, and the rest of the MOB surrounds them. It is chaos, once again.

ADVISOR:
ADVISOR tries to rouse the BARD, but the BARD is deep in sleep. He does not rouse, and another member of the MOB is slain in the madness.

Wake up! Wake up!

Nothing. The ADVISOR takes a deep breath.

To the mob.

ORDER.

Nothing.

S**t. S**t. S**t.

Well… let’s try something else.

Strides over to the member of the mob who first instigated the chaos by slaying another and grabs them, throwing them centerstage. The chaos resolves, and the MOB forms a semi-circle around them.

You. You have broken the law.

MURDERER:
Me? What law?

ADVISOR:
The law I have just created.

MURDERER:
I didn’t know there was a law.

ADVISOR:
There wasn’t. I just created it. And you broke it.

MURDERER:
How?

ADVISOR:
You murdered someone.

MURDERER:
Oh. I guess I did. So..

ADVISOR:
I, uh, suppose I should do something.

MURDERER:
Yeah. I..I guess you should.

ADVISOR:
Hmm. Alright. So, you murdered someone. I guess I’m.. going to murder you.

MURDERER:
Wait--

ADVISOR:
Slays the murderer. Turns, and addresses the MOB.

Alright. So, from now on, if you murder anyone, I’ll murder you. That’s the law.

THE MOB goes back to peace. A few moments later, a mob member drags another to the ADVISOR. The rest of the MOB forms a familiar semi-circle around them.

CITIZEN:
They stole my grain.

THIEF:
So what?

ADVISOR:
I…I should do something about this. To the thief.
Why did you steal?

THIEF:
I was hungry.

ADVISOR:
Why are you hungry? We live in peace.

THIEF:
There was a fire. A flood. Some disaster.

CITIZEN:
Do something.

ADVISOR:
Can you give back the grain?

THIEF:
No. I ate it.

ADVISOR:
You cannot give the grain back. You ate it. So…so I will cut it from your stomach.

THIEF:
What? Wait--

ADVISOR:
Plunges a blade into the belly of the thief.
Let it be known: the new law decrees that thief will be punished by murder. Line up, thieves.

TWO members of the mob line up in front of the ADVISOR.

What did you steal?

IRON THIEF:
Iron.

ADVISOR:
Why?

IT:
To get rich.

The ADVISOR kills him.

ADVISOR:
Next.

The BREAD THIEF comes forward.

BREAD THIEF:

Please. Please, don’t kill me. I only stole because my child-- please, have mercy--

ADVISOR:
Shakes his head.

BREAD THIEF:
No! Please! Please!

THE BARD wakes up as the BREADTHIEF cries out.

BARD:
STOP!

ADVISOR:
My king, while you were sleeping, they stole. They pilfered. They lied.

BARD:
You cannot kill them. What gives you the right to kill them?

ADVISOR:
It’s the law.

BARD:
There is no law.

ADVISOR:
I made the law.

BARD:
Stop. I decree it.

ADVISOR:
I will not listen to you. You are not t the king.

BARD:
As if pained.
Please…do not make me…

BREAD THIEF:
Help!

BARD:
I…I am the King.

THE BARD becomes the KING.

I order you to let her go.

ADVISOR:
Yes, my king.

BARDKING:
These are people, not pawns. You killed them as if they were nothing.

ADVISOR:
My apologies--

BARDKING:
You will leave.

ADVISOR:
What? No--

BARDKING:
I am sorry. You must leave. It is the only way for peace.

ADVISOR:
My king, my divine, you cannot cast me out into eternity! I live for you--

BARDKING:
Go.

As the BARDKING and the MOB exit, the ADVISOR stumbles across the stage. He comes upon the KNIGHT.

KNIGHT:
HALT.

ADVISOR:
Go ahead. Kill me. I betrayed you.

KNIGHT:
Killing you wouldn’t do much, traitor. We’re all dead.
Where did everyone go?

ADVISOR:
They are heading towards the court of the new king--

KNIGHT:
Wait, weren’t you the king?

ADVISOR:
A long time ago--

KNIGHT:
And weren’t you the Fool?

ADVISOR:
Even longer ago.

KNIGHT:
I’ve always been the knight.

ADVISOR:
Yes. You haven’t changed.

So there’s a new king?

KNIGHT:
Yes.

ADVISOR:
Well, it turns out there is another.

KNIGHT:
Where?

ADVISOR:
Elsewhere.

KNIGHT:
Two kings? No, that’s impossible. There can only be one king.

ADVISOR:
I thought so too, but it’s true. This king has the soul of a poet. This king sleeps all day and weeps all night. This King believes in peace and kindness. He is terribly weak. He has knobby knees. He insulted me, and I hate him.

KNIGHT:
That’s terrible.

ADVISOR:
Yes. It doesn’t make any sense. It is against the order of things. The order of infinity. If you wish, I can take you to the King.
There cannot be a new king, ambling towards a new hall. The hall cannot be full of life and flowers. Our skeleton king of rot needs co**ses to rule over.

If I do--and if you slay him--can I serve the old King as an advisor?

KNIGHT:
You want power?

ADVISOR:
Yes.

KNIGHT:
Are you sure? Power corrupts--

ADVISOR:
I am already stained with the…boredom of evil. I will claw and claw until there is nothing left to shed.

KNIGHT:
Will you bide your time until you can sneak into the King’s chamber and slit his throat to take his throne?

ADVISOR:
Yes.

KNIGHT:
After you kill him and take his throne, can I be the advisor?

ADVISOR:
Sure.

KNIGHT:
And can I bide my time to overtake you and slit your throat and steal the throne from you?

ADVISOR:
That is the rightful order of things, yes.

KNIGHT:
Alright. Take me to him.

LIGHTS UP across the stage on the KING with the MOB. They are sitting in a circle around him, tranquil.

BARDKING:
So. You’ve betrayed me.

ADVISOR:
Yes.

BARDKING:
And for what?

ADVISOR:
Power.

BARDKING:
You will have it. I knew..I knew that I was only postponing eternity. We will all return to that empty hall. Go ahead. There is no escape.

THE KNIGHT goes from person to person, slaying each member of the MOB. At long last, he comes to the BARD and plunges a DAGGER into him.

LIGHTS DOWN.

CHORUS IN THE DARKNESS:

We are back in the hall. They are fighting, mad, made insane with power. It doesn’t matter who the Fool is, who the King is, who the Bard is. In the end, it is darkness. A obsidian sea. Co**ses rise and serve again. It is the cycle. It is all there is.

But there is hope.

All along these dark threads, these trajectories of violence and bones and blood we cannot break, a seed planted glimmers in the dust.

Once, for a blip, there was peace. Once, for a blip, there was kindness. And may it rise up again like a w**d? Take root in the petulance?

No. This is what we have, what we are owed, what we owe eachother. A dying world, a relentless heat, and unending horror.

But there is hope.

It is not enough.

But there is hope.

He’s been dead forever. He was never alive. But we dug him up. The Co**se King.

Lights up on a throne at center stage. There is a skeleton wearing a paper crown.

Let the trial commence. You. You did this to us. It is your fault. Why were you such a monster?

The Co**se King is silent.

No, no, it is not our fault. When you started the path of atrocities, when you first spilled blood, we let you do it. We voted you in, we knew what you were and we cheered and poured wine in your name. Now there is only an empty hall. There was so much here before. A beautiful cities of flowers and life and blooming. Now, there is nothing.

What do you have to say for yourself?

The Co**se King is silent.

Justice. Justice is silent.

An OFFSTAGE VOICE of the CO**SE KING, coated in death and dust, haunting (feel free to use FX Effects to make it as desolate as possible.)

CO**SE KING:

I am the voice of madness. The paranoia, the despot purging, the forced disappearances, the pardoning ning of gross sin. I am the inescapable. I am all there is, and all there ever will be. I am the filibuster and the gerrymandering, I am the polis and the guillotine head rolling. I am the heart of darkness. I am a musket, I am a chain, I am a famine. I am the tyrant at the gates and the horde coming up over the hill to raze the village. I am the na**lm. I am the scorched forests and the child soldiers and the starvation and I am the dronestrikes and the crusade and the--

END SCENE

SCENE 3:
LIGHTS UP at a town council meeting.

COUNCILOR DAVIS:

It is now public comment period. Remember. Keep it under three minutes and keep it civil.

AN OLD MAN approaches the podium.

What’s your name?

OLD MAN:
Why don’t my grandkids visit me anymore?

DAVIS:
Excuse me?

OLD MAN:
Why don’t my grandkids come over anymore? Those little ungrateful, lazy s**ts. I tell you what. This generation and their eyepads and--

DAVIS:
Sir, this is a town council public comment period. Do you have an issue related to the town?

OLD MAN:
Yes. I do. Every single day the young thug down the street walks his dog, and every day he stops in front of my house to take a s**t. And he picks it up with a little baggie. But why does he have to stop in front of my house? Why does the dog have to s**t in front of my house? Why can’t I just shoot the dog?

DAVIS:
You want to shoot a dog for pooping outside your house?

OLD MAN:
I want to shoot the dog, the thug. I want to shoot everyone who goes over the speed limit. I want to shoot everyone who knocks on my door. I want to shoot my neighbor who angles his snowblower to shoot snow on my side of the fence. I want to shoot democrats, I want to shoot protestors, I want to shoot--

DAVIS:
Your time is up.

OLD MAN:
I want to shoot you.

DAVIS:
Alright.

The OLD MAN exits.

Darlene Smith ENTERS.

DAVIS:
State your name for the record.

DARLENE:
Darnlene Smith. I live at 427 Oak Street.

DAVIS:
Alright. You may begin.

DARLENE:
Councilor Davis, I’ve actually come to speak with you directly. You might not know me, but we went to high school together.

DAVIS:
I…I recall. What is this about?

DARLENE:
This is going to be quite uncomfortable for you, Councillor. But you serve on the School Board as well, correct?

DAVIS:
Yes. I do. What does--

DARLENE:
I think it’s curious, and a bit hypocritical, that a man like yourself is serving the public, especially considering your…history.

I am a concerned parent. I only want what is best for my children, and when I heard what is happening in those schools--the bathrooms, the litterboxes, the kids pretending to be cats and dogs and different genders--I proposed a bill banning pronoun usage in schools. Ending the madness that is enveloping our children. You voted it down. You’re a predator.

DAVIS:
No--I--

DARLENE:
You’re hiding. You’re lying to your voters, to your city. You’re a drag queen. You are the enemy. You are dangerous Don’t try to deny it. I have pictures of you here.

DAVIS:
Don’t listen to her--don’t--

LIGHTS DOWN.

LIGHTS UP.

It is a mayoral debate between Darlene and an unseen opponent.


DARLENE:
And furthermore, I think my opponent’s position on homelessness in the city is an insult to the businesses and hardworking residents of our city. Spending tax dollars on building another homeless shelter is laughable--who wants criminals like that hanging out in their backyard? Having the police carry Narcan? If someone is going to overdose, I say, let them overdose. Let the police tear down their tents. Get them off the street, either in handcuffs or a bodybag! Wild applause. It’s time we finally take our city back!

LIGHTS DOWN.
Lights up on DARLENE. It is a campaign speech. A sign in the background reads “DARLENE SMITH FOR SENATOR.”

It’s so great to be campaigning back in my home state. You know, we’re going to take the fight straight to the senate and keep fighting the perverted enemy from within. We’re going to kick out all the lawbreakers from infested, s**thole countries and we are going to keep babies from dying! This country will be great if we just stamp out the vermin infecting it!

LIGHTS DOWN. LIGHTS UP on DARLENE. A Whitehouse Logo in the background. Offstage reporter voice.

REPORTER:
Madam Press Secretary, is it true that the president--

DARLENE:

It’s all true. He can do it. He is the fu***ng president. He can do whatever he wants, you fu***ng idiot. Shut the f**k up. We don’t have to pretend anymore.

We can do whatever the f**k we want and we will and we will pick the fruit from this tree and we will burn this fu***ng country to the ground and we will string you up and hang you like Christmas lights and we will kill the qu**rs and the worst impluses will become law--

LIGHTS DOWN.

LIGHTS UP.

We are in a classroom.

The TEACHER is speaking directly to the audience, as if a they are the students.

TEACHER:

Yesterday, we learned that the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell. PEMDAS. Today, we’re going to learn that the old world, the world you remember, deep in your bones, does not exist. Do you remember every divot in your bedroom carpet as a child? In the deepest vaults of memory, do you remember the way it felt to clutch your favorite stuffed animal to your chest?

What’s the feeling? Give it name.

If no one raises their hands, I am going to pick someone.

Call on someone in the audience. Ad lib something like “pay attention.”

Safety. Right.

What do you think safety means?

Call one someone. No matter that they say, they are wrong.

No. Doesn’t really sound like you were paying attention. The expectation in this classroom is that you pay attention. SAFETY means the condition of being protected from harm. When is a time that you have felt safe?

RAISE YOUR HANDS. RAISE YOUR HANDS.

No. No. No.

You are obviously not grasping the material. Through ineptitude or laziness. Doesn't matter which. You could be so much better. You're staying in from recess today. Don't whine. Tomorrow too. Why? You dare to ask why?

Time is going to take and take and take and you want to know why you can't go outside and run and scream on the monkey bars? Don't you dare question this, you snotnosed rat. Don't cry. I see that single tear.

Weak. You are so weak. Pathetic. This is where it starts. This is where the hatred stems. There is a wolf that speaks in your voice, but he is not you. He tears at the lambs of your memory, spills the safe memories and bathes them in blood. This is the first lesson of the world. Violence is everywhere, you can't escape it, and you will be punished if you try.

Every classroom has one. The butt, the fu***ng contemptuous heel. The oozing wound. In this class, it’s Jonathan Slocum.

Jonathan Slocum smells like cat p**s and bird s**t.
Jonathan Slocum is so fat that when he lifts up his arms his belly falls out.
Jonathan Slocum’s daddy is in jail.

And maybe once in a while, if it’s obvious, I’ll tell the kids to stop picking on him, but I hate him too. I hate that he tries to be quiet and disappear in class.

I hate the stupid fu***ng way that he says “I don’t know” when I ask him the order of operations. So I’ll make him stay in for recess. If he does something embarrassing, I’ll make him stand up in front of class. I’m on him like a fu***ng hawk.

I’m teaching these children that not everyone is human, that it’s ok to relentlessly--and I mean relentlessly pick on someone because you hate them.

And I know that kids are sociopaths, but most of the time they need an adult to push them along. It’s developmental milestones, turning into a fu***ng wolf. And one day, in their office, when they have a chance to be petulant and viscous they fu***ng will. They will bare down into the world and carve into it.

They will fall into this vicious order.

LIGHTS DOWN.

LIGHTS STAY DOWN.

CHORUS IN THE DARKNESS:
We never left the hall, did we? It always leads right back into the nothingness.

A SINGLE LIGHT UP ON THE CO**SE KING.

CO**SE KING:
It’s not my fault, is it?

CHORUS:
What?

CK:
It’s not my fault. Did you sell society? Did you let the robber barons thrive? Have you left Eden torched, desiccated, spurting oil? Are you boiling? Will you boil?

CHORUS:
Yes.

CK:
Did you sell society for the constant short term dopamine feedback loop?

Did you dehumanize the other? Did you let the country die? Did you tear it open? Did you let the Earth crumble into the last midnight like a cliff face into the sea?

CHORUS:
Yes.

CK:
You dug me up. Explain to me again-- How is it my fault?

CHORUS:
It is your fault. You are the violence of history manifest--

CK:
No. I did not burn the witch. You did. We did. You are the ruler and the worker, the Jester and King and the Fool and the Bard. When we are a pile of bones will be be indiscernible from each other.

You are the second, sure, but the second makes up the minute and the minute the hour and the hour the day and the day the life and it never stops and it is a loop and we are forever--

LIGHTS DOWN.

LIGHTS BACK UP.

We are in a mirror of the start of the play, but instead of a hall, it is the FOOL standing in the darkness.

FOOL:
I’m…I’m..so tired. I can’t keep…I can’t keep doing this.

Slowly. Pained. Beyond hope.

My…lord.
Your…. enemy has been felled.

As a knight of virtue…
I ask for nothing in return…
But… but…
A..
poultry…
sum…for my
heroic deed.

Glances beside him.
Suddenly, a candle.

Ah. I..I see.

I have seen this. So many times. So many variations. The door opens, and it is everything, the galaxy, threads weaving in and out, infinite. And it seems to beautiful, but it is not meant for me to understand. I cannot understand, and to glimpse at the sheer beauty of all of it--of creation--is enough to drive anyone insane.

And to look down, into this abyss, into the obsidian slate of everything..and see the inevitable swirling, lapping up at me, pulling me into nothingness… It too is enough to drive me to madness. When I was born, the one thing I was told was to keep this candle lit and safe. When I was trapped by infinity, I kept the candle on a high shelf, protected by wind and rain. But now, surrounded by decay…

There’s a way out. We just have to s***f out the light.

THE BARD emerges from the ether.

BARD:
When I was young, my father told me that to really fight what is killing the world, to really make a difference, you had to rise up and match the vitriol with love. So I tried, with my songs, to lift above the fog and meet the tyrants with a clear clarion call upwards. But they bashed me, hung me, burnt my papers and my books and bombed my concert halls.

And so I stopped loving. I became cynical and scared, in many ways more naive than I was when I was full of love. But is that not the way of the poet? To start off full, and spend the rest lamenting how empty it all seems?

How empty it is? And when I found myself trapped in this hall, when I found myself with no real way to fight the looping terror, I slept. I have tried to be a mirror to the world, to illuminate what is wrong and what needs to change. And sometimes, we change and we grow and we sow the seeds and a lumbering terror comes along and rips our roots out from the ground.

It reminds me of a song.

We’re neither pure, nor wise, nor good
We’ll do the best we know.
We’ll build our house and chop our wood
And make our garden grow.

But they are burning our gardens to the ground, aren’t they?

So what do we do? Is it enough to write another poem? To sing another song, write another play? To tell a joke, to jest, to go to a meeting, to protest, to hold a sign? Is any of this enough? Am I doing enough?

It is, of course, easier to sleep.

FOOL:
My friend. I agree. It is easier to sleep. How easy would it be for me to s***f the candleflame? How easy would it be to cannonball into the nothingness with you? But I think there is a reason we are here with me.

We could do it again.

BARD:
And again.

FOOL:
Haven’t we gone through it enough?

BARD:
Yes.

FOOL:
I’m tired.

BARD:
Me too.

FOOL:
But, in the story, I..I become king.

BARD:
Me too.

FOOL:
In the story…I can do whatever I want.

BARD:
As can I.

FOOL:
I…I don’t want to do it again.

BARD:
Neither do I.

FOOL:
But…I don’t want just…let it die.

BARD:
I don’t either.
The world is beautiful.

FOOL:
And it’s dying.

BARD:
Those two things can be true at once.

FOOL:
So. We do it again. Even if it’s terrifying.

BARD:
We do better. A little bit better. Bit by bit. And if this really is infinity, maybe we can gradually build the world we want.

FOOL:
It sounds great. From up here. But when we get down there, into that empty hall, and we can’t? What if it all goes to s**t again?

BARD:
Then it goes to s**t. And we eventually fix it. Ad nauseum.

FOOL:
You’re right. And we have eternity. So why not?

BARD:
Alright. Are you ready?

FOOL:
Yes.

BARD:
Scene.

THE FOOL, a jester, moves about an empty hall, flailing, as if drunk. He stumbles for a moment, and then rights himself. The skewer of chicken is there. He picks it up, waves it about for a moment, and sets it down.

FOOL:
MY LORD! Your enemy has been felled! As a knight of virtue…wait.
Collapsing. Waste not a drop…. Do not spill…spillage…not comely for a king, nor the lowly maid with a flummoxed bosom… I serve my own master… for I am both fool and maid... If you drip, my king, the fruit flies will swarm.. and the ants will become drunkards marching…quandering query..you. Not rot… with time and grows…..A tiny pickle…No vulgarity..I am sorry… festering with mold.. perhaps it is time for the wine to flow… No. With gumption and mental fortitude.

No. No. I will…I will set the table.

He begins to set plates, adorning the table for a feast. He picks up an apple.

The FOOL sits on the edge of the throne, and opens the KING’s skeletal jaw. The FOOL pours wine into it.

Ah. I forgot. It appears fresh, but the flesh is rotten.

That’s okay. That will change when we open the shutters and let some air into this dank crypt.

Beat.

How long have I been here? The table is set. He waits, expecting the hall to come to life. He approaches the skeleton of the king.

My King! A quandering query for you. What will rot with time and grows more potent with age?

Power, my dear dead ruler. We let it mold us and now we are desiccated and moldy. You know what? If the feast is festering with mold, perhaps it is time for the wine to flow!

The FOOL looks at the co**ses.

I remember. All of you; cruel. I was nothing but a bastard, a scumspit s**tstain that could juggle. You cut me with pairing knives for fun, rubbed my nose in f***l piles and pi**ed in my wine. You deserve to be bone; I deserve to feast. I deserve to f**k and love and I deserve to leave this crumbling hall. But..it’s not about that. An eye for an eye makes the whole world..uh, have cataracts. It is not about vengeance. I don’t forgive you, but I can live with you.

THE BARD, who has been lying in the same heap since the beginning of the show, groans, and sits up. Slowly, painfully, the BARD is revealed; an emaciated zombie-like figure. The bard crawls to the side of the throne, and shaking, groaning, and moaning, pulls out a lute. The BARD gives the lute a strum. The BARD’s fingers start to bleed.

FOOL:
Friend. You do not have to perform for me. You look tired. You should rest.

BARD:
Thank you.

THE BARD goes to sleep.

FOOL:
Hums as he dusts and cleans.

A throne of bones.
Crumbling, dust.
An iron sword succumbs to rust.
History is terror.
There is nothing left.

TO the KING’s SKELETON.

I have an urge to rip your head off. How strange. To jump up on this table. To conquer death. How depressing. I should be glad to finally die in peace.

The KNIGHT raps at the door.

A visitor? What fun! Come in!
A knight wanders into the hall.

KNIGHT:
Hello. Sorry to let myself in, but the door was unlocked.

FOOL:
That is ok. Sit down; drink wine. I am not sure if the fruit is rotten or not. Anyway, more wine.

THE KNIGHT sits at the table, drinking.

KNIGHT:
I am a bit confused. Are you a fool?

FOOL:
I’m me.

KNIGHT:
Are you a fool?

FOOL:
Some days.

KNIGHT:
Who do you serve?

FOOL:
Myself, my lord. I serve the tiny god inside of me.

There is another bout of rapping on the door.

JESTER:
(O.S)
How do I open the door?

FOOL:
It’s open.

JESTER enters.

JESTER:
I heard that there is a new king.

KNIGHT:
No. We haven’t gotten there yet.

JESTER:
I’ve come to jest.

FOOL:
Go ahead.

KNIGHT:
But after, sit at the table.

JESTER:
At the table?

FOOL:
Sure.

JESTER:
You are a kind fool. Most would have the jester sit on the floor.

FOOL:
I don’t know what kind of person I am. I don’t think I am kind. I feel more of a fool with each passing day. But I am trying to be better.

Tell me. Before eternity beckoned, did you have a family?

JESTER:
Yes. A wife and a daughter.

FOOL:
Did you love them?

JESTER:
Yes.

FOOL:
They are here.

Sit.
WIFE and DAUGHTER enter, and join the JESTER at the table. The nobles come alive. A scene of merriment. The BARD wakes up, and begins strumming the lute.

FOOL:
For the first time in eternity, my heart is full. This will happen again. I hope it does.

BARD:
Singing.

The Spanish wine is p**sy-water,
The English have foul daughters,
The catacombs are the only draw
Across the channel and abroad.
I wish they would wear pants in France
For when the ladies come to dance
We laugh, laugh, laugh.--

ALL howl with laughter.

LIGHTS DOWN.

After a pause. In the darkness.

FOOL:
No. No.

NO.

Let me rest. Let me be finally dead, at peace. Why..why am I awake? I..I did what was asked of me. I broke the cycle.

Why is it so dark?

I’m so tired.

Why can’t I rest?

LIGHTS UP, CENTER, on the throne with the skeletal remains of the CO**SE KING.

CO**SE KING:

It’s happening again. And over and over and over. They just bombed a convoy of aid trucks. A mass shooting at a mall…over and over and over again…

FOOL:
It’s awful. But there’s nothing I can do about that. Not from this empty place, anyway.

CO**SE KING:
Alright. I guess that’s your answer. Don’t act so gloomy. You had a nice, restful sleep at least. Me? I’m the scribe. I have to catalog all of this. Every whisper of violence or souring. My dust is spread over every inch of air. I am everywhere, I’m every poet, every thief, every general, every scribe, every murderer--

FOOL:
So. What are we going to do?

CO**SE KING:
What we’ve always done. What we always will do. It will happen again. It will happen over and over. And we will be alive to witness it.

FOOL:
How long have I been trapped?

CO**SE KING:
You cannot measure eternity.

FOOL:
And each time, each time I start again, bounding through this hall of bones, I manifest them into life? My friends? The Bard, the Jester, the Knight?

CO**SE KING:
Yes.

FOOL:
No. No…I’m a monster.

CO**SE KING:
Oh, grow up.

That’s your folly. The folly of all your kind. You turn inward, twist the truth to fit the self. Yes, sure, you are in misery, and you are frantically vying for absolution.

But it will not come. There’s no way to make this better: to make yourself feel better. It is wrong. All of this is wrong. You do what you can to make it right, but you can only do so very little.

FOOL:
So what’s the point?

CO**SE KING:
There is no point.

FOOL:
Are we made to just..sit in darkness?

CO**SE KING:
Yes.

FOOL:
Maybe you are. Maybe that is the silence and the comfort that you clutch. But I am going to do it again. I am going to make it better.

CO**SE KING:
Even after all this time, you are still hopelessly naive.

FOOL:
And you are a boring pile of bones.

CO**SE KING:
Hmm.

I’ll see you back in the darkness.

FOOL:
You will. And over and over and over again.

CO**SE KING:
You could let it all go. You could--

FOOL:
S***f out the light? S***f out the candle?

CO**SE:
Yes.

FOOL:
Without it…

CO**SE:
It would be over.

FOOL:
All the pain…all the death..all the hope, all the libations, all the laughter..

CO**SE:
Everything.

FOOL:
No.
We will get this right.

CO**SE:
You won’t.

FOOL:
I’ll see you. Over and over and over and over…until something--anything--changes.

CO**SE:
I’ll be here.

FOOL:
I know.

LIGHTS DOWN.

END OF PLAY.