Winter Hawk Jack
by Robert Crisman
Jack was a winter hawk out in the mix who pretended he swooped like a man.
Some hardshell lowroller had told him, fly in the sky and get hard or you die…
Jack played the game according to corporate dictate, with a steel-plate facade and the sewer-rat ethics big business demands. Success in the mix, i.e., manhood, is measured in dollars, as it is at all levels here in this bankers’ wet dream of a country.
Jack was a businessman, dig it? An MBA right out of Fool School….
He was hawk-nosed, hawk-eyed. He wore hawk’s plumage.
Jack, man in black, sporting manicured talons, his smile a hot-buttered knife…
A winter hawk, baby! He swooped from the sky! He showed no fear! Too many hostile takeover artists, waiting to bust through his armor.
Jack murdered his tears and hid behind dope. And as the years passed, the dope stripped him. And he’d pray to God in cold, lonely rooms at four in the morning, when all the note-taking snitches had clocked out for home and no one came by to watch him shiver and shake. Except for maybe his very last ghosts, who could no longer bother to care.
Jack fell from the sky, hawk no more. He snatched and ate dead things in gutters.
Jack, carrion crow.
Above, buzzards circled.
(Robert Crisman found out early on that all Jacks wind up in the gutter.)