Was a Man

There was a man made out of crows.

What do you now know about this man?

You know he was. You know he was made. You know his substance was crows.

Perhaps you are inventing his origin story (you should tell). Perhaps you are painting his portrait. How quickly you have invited yourself into his world, which might be a private world. Perhaps you are denying his very existence with some a priori argument, like some philosophical busybody.

But I assure you the man made out of crows exists.

In fact, what if I told you he is standing right before you, writing these words.

The shadows of my black wings are all over this page. I am a congress of crows, fighting with each other but somehow unified. My beaks are legion. My feet end in claws like scythes. Baby Grim Reaper scythes on each of my feet. Do you see me yet?

Sometimes driving past a cornfield, I have to pull the car over.

I just have to explode into a Van Gogh painting.

It’s a terrible self-indulgence.

But then I pull myself back together, cram the wings of my murder back into the car, and drive off down the country road.