A raven would
Literally have to scream
Nevermore in my face for
Me to know the difference
Between him and the
Crow over whom he has
Largely by having once
And famously screamed
In this other poet’s face.
Published by M. Ashley
I am an essayist and poet. My work has been rejected by some of the finest journals in America. Fortunately, it also gets accepted from time to time and has appeared in equally fine journals such as Word Riot, Inlandia, Brew City Magazine, and SageWoman, among others.. In 2002, I won the Academy of American Poets Prize for Vanderbilt University.
For no good reason, I possess an unnecessarily dark humor which is why being third generation California Inland Empirian delights me so. My gods are weird. I once won $350 for writing a smartassed essay on “why the wise use of water is important in my daily life”. I am undoubtedly the Greek god Hermes’ special snowflake. I’m pretty sure I got into college via a series of fortuitous clerical errors.
When I had to grow up and get a real job, I decided against it and stayed a writer. I have worked many odd—and I mean odd—jobs to support my habit: PR writer for country music hopefuls, resume massager, WalMart fitting room attendant and switchboard operator, and telephone psychic, just to name a few.
I am also albino. That's why my psychic gifts are so strong. I traded in my pigment for magical foresight, because that's how it works. It gets all technical. Trust me. That's totally how it works.
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2 thoughts on “Ravens Are Self-Aggrandizing Assholes (poem)”
I can never get the differences straight because there are different cultural stories, natural and supernatural, that muddy up the waters. If you’ve ever seen the craven raven black flag waving over a nest, beware: they crow about their victories when attacking in a group, but their shouted caw-poems are as dark as a raven-haired witch’s black-cauldron carrion stew.
An image of black feathers circling counterclockwise in the stew. Witches don’t caw when they attack in a group. They cackle.