wherever i go, a tempest follows

i have gone through seven cities in the past few weeks

every one, i am chased away by the sound of thunder and the crash of jupiter's mighty javelin

this is why i fear no human, filled with pests

because, in truth, the true power of the murder is so much more terrible, so much more awe inspiring, than any mere mortal could be

the point at which they shed the pretense of their mere brutish form

and, in its place, bring the storm

it didn't storm last night.

there was no rain.

there was no wind.

the tree out front is gone.  smoldering.  exploded.  burning.

i need to get out of here.

silence, ho

i won't bore you with the details but, i am on the move yet again.

where i was is no longer safe, so i shall have to be somewhere else.

i wonder, before i go.

how can those who choose to hold those foul avians even pretend to be human?  how can they pretend to belong to a higher cause?  to be a higher life form?

they are debasing themselves.  they are becoming a tool to an animal.  less than human.

and yet, there are those who consider themselves blessed.

a holy birdhouse, if that.  nothing more.

do you know, little nests, what happens to a shell like you that loses too much structural integrity?  what happens to a nest that takes a shotgun blast to the face, perhaps?  or a full body roasting?

you are food.  like all the other unworthy.  you are a useful fur coat.  you are useful camouflage.  you are a pack animal who deems itself a temple.  nothing more.

peace, break thee off

i imagine some may wonder why i am giving so much a fuss over birds

after all, i myself confess to having slain scores of them.

in truth, killing birds is never the problem.  hollow bones.  flammable wings.  a bird can be broken with such accidental ease.

there is a force.  a mind beyond our own.  a soul with many bodies, as many as it can claim.

that is my foe.  others call it what they will.  i first encountered it with crows.

thus, i call it the murder.

as many birds as are slain, as many of their vile devotees, filled with the foul fowl themselves i have burned and shot and run over with farm equipment

in the end, the murder lives on.  breaths on, because it is not a bird.  it is a will.  a force behind them.

perhaps it has a form.  perhaps there is a face to the murder.

i do not wish to know it.

there are times, i think, i have caught a glimpse of the true enemy.  you can see it when they make lightning.  a spark of the divine among the brute intelligence it has claimed.

'tis beautiful, to be honest.  and maddening.  much like the nature it commands, the merest glimpse  of it put spots on the vision of my mind's eye.

but that is a tale for another day.  one i have been putting off telling.

i am not the hero of my story, you see.  much like lear, i was deceived, and the true hero was cast away to her fate.

i merely live in her memory.  live for her memory.  she gave her life for mine unworthy existence.

'tis the least i can do to prolong it.

there was a starling in my kitchen today

i put it in the microwave

and all that entails.

now i need to clean the kitchenette.

it is not a good idea to microwave a starling

just

for your information

exit, pursued by a bear

i had to run today.

a man came to my door.  he looked like a policeman.  wanted to ask me some questions, like what i was doing there.  wanted to see my identification.

when he saw it, he told me to get down on the floor.  he pulled out handcuffs.  he said i was wanted for murder.  and arson.

i will not deny the arson charge.  but i am not guilty of murder.  you can't murder something that's already given its life away.  you can't murder in a war.

so i kicked him in the testicles and rushed past him, running for the door of my apartment building.

i am lucky the doors are glass.  otherwise i would not have seen the blackbird-covered world lying in wait for me.

i turned quickly, and saw the policeman walking towards me.  he did not have a gun, he had a knife, and he was slowly stripping off his jacket.

"you can't outrun the heavens, little crocodile."  he said, tearing his shirt open and sinking the blade bloodlessly into his chest.  "they'll always be watching over you."

i ran towards him now, brushing past him as the first beak began to prod its way from his flesh.

i think he believed me helpless, my only choices being to face the heavens or die in my windowless room.

he underestimated me.  i came back with molotovs.

that's another arson count for me. 'tis a shame, i liked that place, too.

i don't know if i killed the birds.  maybe i did, maybe i didn't.  maybe they can't die.  or maybe it doesn't matter how many birds you kill.

because the flock will never end.