It takes one to know one swift fell swoop
like a bat out of hell and certainly the belfry.
If you've something to prove to the birds and the bees,
I won't bat an eye at your rhinoplasty.

I'll take two hoots, 'cause I sure won't give them.
Find somebody else to get up and go;
I cry like I fly like a carrion crow
and I've two left feet and no time to tango.

It takes three strikes 'til it's not just company
any more — it's a crowd and my agoraphobia
is making this worse, so I might disperse.

If you don't quite care, let's put two and two together;
playing pretend we're birds of a feather.
I could commend, but that's such a no-no;
you're more like a doornail to me, less like a dodo.

And if you don't much mind, I might just take five.
I'm chicken-livered, but at least alive
though I feel like a dead duck, dusted and done.
I won't be there, I'll stay fair and square,
right back at square one.

Now can you see how this is cyclic?
Makes me feel one sandwich short of a picnic,
up the wall, and driving me sick.
Apologies, I don't mean to nitpick,
and I know I've a number of bees in my bonnet,
but I've zero interest in your haiku and sonnets.

So here's one for the road,
turn by the way the devil drives you home,
and one good turn deserves
another.

D A Y L I G H T:
⠀
In my premature years, black licorice had always been my favorite treat, as it evoked memories of my favorite bird: the crow. It was something like a token of my admiration. Laid in a brittle bed of crisp-like-fall leaves, eyes that were once much bigger would gaze at the sky and see it as a continuation of the ocean. I assumed there was more distance, more leaves, more crows; because the ocean was never just the boats that wavered on the surface.
⠀
I never apprehended that throughout the day is when crows are most distinguishable. Their ebony cutouts, nefarious eyes, and visibly oily obsidian tones contrasted greatly against my favorite element of day – they rode through clouds like mere puddles of fog. Their squawking did not reverberate as boundlessly, nor did it ricochet against the buildings and quivering pine trees. The morning time is when the crows divulge in their breakfast meal, sipping dew from the tallest blades of grass while dressed all in black. It is never the question of, “did you hear that?” or “what was it?”. The crow is the crow as the pigeon is the pigeon.
⠀
⠀
N I G H T F A L L:
⠀
When the world is cloaked with its darkest twinges of night is when the crows become the /crows/, disappearing into their forest lairs. There, they resemble storm clouds that crackle with an aloof thunder regardless of hovering just overhead like a guilty conscience. At night, their hell reigns on a foreshadowed sanctuary – a repetitive funeral, Satan himself occupying a casket made from twigs, the flesh of mice, and children’s shoelaces. Your mind morphs into an unhinged vault, where they prowl and feed on your visions, and devour your common sense. They dilute your integrity with ingenuity.  The crow is no longer something vexatious, but rather you are - an intruder - and he, above you in every sense of the word.
⠀
I lie here now, patient as the sun’s shift ends and a somber veil falls over relative land. I no longer face the obligation of licorice, and instead between my teeth resides the root of a sleek, onyx feather. “Sono vivo gui.”

Crow cackle! Crow cackle!
…cackling crow!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?

What does he do?
And what does he hear?
What does he see?
Why do birds fear?

Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?

The scarecrow sees bunnies,
the scarecrow sees squirrels,
The scarecrow sees shenanigans
of little boys and girls.

The scarecrow sees nothing
because he doesn’t have real eyes.
The scarecrow’s just hay, in a disguise!
The bunnies will stop put to him one eye,
they cannot seem to figure out, if he’s dead or alive?

Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?

And the chickadee and the finches and the wrens and the sparrow,
all want to rest on him but find themselves harrowed,
for his job is to be frightening, fearsome and scary,
…and blackbirds, ravens, crows here-ever are nary.

Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?

You’ll find him quietly scouting the good farmer’s fields,
If you could speak to him or hear from him, what could he reveal?

Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!

Eating your corn, tormenting fields that you’ve sown,
In the evenings or the mornings he’ll always be alone.
Squawking and screaming their terrible dread!
Crying at you, calling to you and filling your head,
Always complaining and shouting at your ear.
That field and its corn, is what they hold dear.

Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?

Protecting the corn fields,
forever in the throes,
Crow cackle! Crow cackle!
…cackling crow!

Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?

The raven strutted into view-
Dissembling crows
Peered from the tangled grass lashed
Into solemn silence.
The raven assumed a coal-black authority
Driven by its coal-black soul.
Its beak stabbed out automatically
Bleakness of past; spectral futures
Like echoes. Its eyes were cruel drops
Of impenetrable night.
The raven possessed everything in
The imperious manner of a cut-throat-
Killing without fear, without conscience.
It ruled like the destroyer.

Across my body a story is scribed
 it tells of a boy that lived through hell innocents dies
The reaper never lies

Follow the crows

Life moves on he grows cold
A gas mask protects
Evils in the air
So a gas mask he does wear

Follow the ravens

A latern alight
on a star void night leads to safe haven
guides him through the trees
Where his fears whisper in the leaves

follow the rooks

Around the castle
the nobelest of the kings men
Straight forward
ready to die for him

Follow the magpies

and youll find the cat and the hatter wisdom in madness
neither matters to the boy
who thinks like the latter

apples lost
to early rot
first blush of red
on mottled skin
a sallow death
sure as sin

crow of night
crowns the branch
boldly pecks
a hole so wide
plucks the worm
from inside

Ripped out of the night,
pulsating cruelly,
passion spawned

Reaching out, all is changed,
the crow darkly wanders
stars fizzle away into transmutating haze
and dread comes
walking like a bony corpse.

Summer breezes
Blowing by
Not freezing
But heating
The big blue sky
The clouds roll on
Past the bright sun

The Eagle flies by
And all the crows follow
Past the man in suit and tie
He's talking on his cellphone
Doesn't know what's going on

The badger and her cub
Buried deep in the burrow
Collects food to eat
Then goes back to hide

Why am I so dif-fer-ent?
They say I’m out of touch.
Why am I, ple-nar-ily sad?
This life it hurts so much.
And why do they come, come every day?
Shush, quiet now, they’re here.
Those awful tormentors of my soul all cackling and queer!
Whirling head of spinning revolutions,
…feel my stomach ache and pang.
Why will they not leave me alone?
This crew of darkness; Blackbird Gang.

I shouldn’t always feel like this, feel such solemn pain,
…troubling and trouble is these birds are driving me insane!
I’m screaming now! I’m mad with rage! Throwing ice cubes at my deck,
“Go away! Yes, go away!” -their numbers must be kept in check.
Blackhole-whirl, flying twirling darkness, their funnel it points to me-e-e-e-!
For too many is too painful and my mind’s a constant wreck!
One cannot think with those infernal be-e-e-asts,
...and the crazy song they sang.
Why do they so punish me?
The crew of darkness; Blackbird Gang.

I know they serve the Saturn’s wheel and now they’ve come for me.
What did I do? Oh what great sin, oh the blackbirds from within;

The Abyssimal Sea?

Their whirlpool funnel is all around, as my harried soul, it expiates.
I’m done-in; I’m over now, a sorely victim of the Fates!
They took me, took me away, when the tolling bell it rang.
Why could they not leave me alone?
The crew of darkness; Blackbird Gang.

If you find yourself all alone and mired in their thought,
…do not think, extirpate, all the human damage that you’ve wrought.
His flock of fledgling melancholy musical formation,
…will take you away and straight to Hell; the Seventh Circle congregation!
For they took me, took me away, when the tolling bell it rang.
And they will not leave you alone.
This crew of darkness; Blackbird Gang.