by Rick BurskyI forget if young girls still sleep with their boredom beneath their pillows until a boy says, I love you. My mother planted her boredom in a garden but never said what grew. There's a pattern developing here. No one is allowed in the basement of sleep but an old nun sits at the door and sells postcards with a colorful, but badly lit, photograph of it. There are times when boredom is a hand over a flame until the smell of burning flesh. For miles that night, silverfish, dead, floating at the surface, a piece of the moon on each. I drove past people looking up at the roof of a bank, arms motionless at their sides, a staggering scene of languor. It's always a warm afternoon when things like this happen, a man on a roof preparing to jump.
