A Suicide of Crows (Ch4)

Chapter Four

I

Siberian Taiga

Those trees could’ve predated
the Sequoia and Redwoods of
California, a congregation
of sentinels.

An ink abyss of sky towered
above the festivities.

Aisik [From Nivkh "ais" meaning
gold] took a big slug of vodka,
then another, his sister pulling
a lit torch from outta nowhere,
held it close, as he blew the
second swig of vodka into the
flames.

Sending a burst of light
into the night.

II

The whole clan came to pay
him farewell:

Off to the Americas.

Not many of them ventured
into the modern world, but
those who did, did well.

One in athletics – One in
academics.

The elders of the tribe sat
aloft in generations old,
wood carved thrones.

The younger clan members
joyously played instruments
and danced, the forest alit
with multiple fires and
torches.

III

They pulled Aisik into the
center, encouraging him
to dance.

Clasping arms together, he
lowered himself to the forest
floor.

One leg.

Then the other.

Kicked out, in the way designed
to stir up frenzies, brought to
you by the tribes that gave
you Santa Claus and his flying
reindeer, all structured around
a symbolic representation of
an Amanita Muscaria experience.

The toadstool mushroom.

IV

It was like being king for a
day.

Everyone patting him on the
back.

No one noticed the skull pin.

Given to every member who got
on the bus.

Or pledged to get on the bus.

He takes one final look at the
revelry…

To write poetry one must have
a heart that is both soft and
hard.

To write poetry you must be
a paradox.

He throws his Moderator
journal into a fire.

Coming alive in death.

V

A magical paradox.

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Cipher
Stories
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