c.r. avery - birdcage lyrics
she had…
she had…
she had an oberhaus upright
a piano tuners called a “birdcage”
they’re too old to fix, beyond repair
only useful to tone+deaf fugitives
and as muted decorations
there’s many trinkets on top of this piano birdcage
pictures in frames, some loose, a jar of pennies
little ceramic animals, and a light coat of dust
on the piano’s driveway
its lid is down so its black and white keys
are sleeping like little girl dolls
under wooden blankets
i’m in my toque and my scarf
staring at this musical family heirloom
“do you know how to orchestratе such a contraption?” she asks
“not very well,” i rеply
“i mean i can bang out a few chords
but no ragtime rabbit+out+of+the+hat tricks.”
and almost like a man who just helped his buddy move
or mowed many miles of lawns
or like stanley kowalski in, “streetcar named desire”
she nonchalantly removes her shirt
in this living of living rooms
of old furniture and this unique, antique lamp
which my suitcase is trying to have
this big discussion about hunter s. thompson with
the lamp’s not having it
it is transfixed on her
man, she even turns on the lamp
she sits on the couch beside me
stretching out her crickety+bridge legs
on top of my rushing+river lap
flung dangerously below her haunted legs
and the objects in my pocket have already turned to stone
“how have your travels been,” she asks while getting cozy
“i saw nelson mandela speak in trafalgar square”
“well, how was that?”
“well, there were many birds flying overhead
before, during, and after he spoke.”
“what did he talk about?”
this is the question that leaves me breathless
i stare down at my old adidas
my hands turn into cranes
picking her bridging+the+gap legs off
my flowing+into+lake+ontario lap
i walk over to t
the piano as my shoes give way
and she watches in opera+house quiet
i sit at the circle+rotating stool
i lift up its lid
and just below middle+c
my right hands turns into a technician
receiving the key
[beatboxing]
“what’s this got to do with nelson mandela?” she asks
and the piano sounds pretty bad
“his son just died of aids,” i replied
“i’m trying to remember this funeral march i know.”
birds, birds, thousands of birds
fly out from the oberhaus piano’s cage
around the room and out the window
she skates across the room
leans in and puts her palm on the outside of my pocket
feeling the outline of a stone
“what’s this?” she asks
“oh, that’s my magic hour sailor songs.”
her eyebrow goes up in a triangle
expressing, “don’t be pulling my bridge”
i explain:
“each night at dusk, when it’s too dark to look for food
and too early to sleep, we sing
in a repetitive rhythmic—
repetitive rhythmic
repetitive rhythmic
repetitive rhythmic
repetitive rhythmic
repetitive rhythmic
repetitive rhythmic
repetitive rhythmic
repetitive rhythmic
repetitive rhythmic
repetitive rhythmic
repetitive rhythmic
repetitive rhythmic
repetitive rhythmic
chirping
that pierces the spirit with badass blues
she pulls up the harmonica from the river’s mud
puts it to my t++th and whispers
“smooth as a stone, play free as a bird
one who has been banned from religion
like love from the f word”
[beatbox with harmonica]
and it built just for her
just so she knows this world
will never make muted decoration out of me
across the room my suitcase
is screaming at that antique lamp
“so what? i was born to wander
you’re easily unplugged
and fugitives are free.”
she had an oberhaus upright
a piano tuners called a “birdcage”
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