What the Crow Knows

Snatch itch from fraud depletion;
depreciation is the state of anti-nature:
decay and a dropping off the map
is a failure to image a continuity
beyond the death of the self.

It's where artificial intelligence 
gets its misnomer: a being is not
a time or its space, neither are its 
thoughts, these are transients,
clarity spiked with punches.

The real would rather feel
than be defined by past deeds,
entitled is Sir Failed to Have
when in-front-of-the-face
is where the loom unspools.

The fates have it! Their sword-scissors of
unwieldy Damocles, that desk where we 
have both crouched is only a cut-promise
if you never get out of the house.

Move, thus. It's an easy solution to the
anxious stare in to the empty room;
the birds understand that to copyright 
a chirp and expect not only royalties,
but the downstream license to remixed 
songs, is to deny the act of morning.

And at night, it's time to hide and release,
gone are the catches, lost are the impulses 
to take life by the thorns and bleed by hand
into the rosebushes of permanence
whose life in winter can only cry out:
we are crows, waiting for the corn to grow,
unconcerned with replacement,
for our task is caw caw caw.

Leave a comment

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s