My Canary

In bed bathing in music. Paul Simon, Bruce Springsteen, Carly Simon, and James Taylor. Billy Joel and George Harrison. Floating on a cloud of singer-songwriter and contemplating who I am and how far I’ve stepped away from who I am in my fundamental core. Leonard Cohen and Fleetwood Mac reminding me of some dark times. Tom Waits to pepper in the old, stoic man in my soul that smokes marijuana with Willie Nelson, Willie Burroughs, and Willie Shakespeare.

Something has sparked to life in me. Van Morrison writes the songs for sunrise after a long, long night of walking along the river, when you’re still high from the palpitating first date dialog. He is the soundtrack to barefoot first kisses at dawn as you tuck her blonde hair behind her ear.

I like to think that Paul Simon ended Apartheid by scaling a South African Prison with a bandana around his head and a dagger between his teeth. His pistols were strapped to his hips and on his back, a semi-automatic machine gun of some kind was at the ready. As he pried the bars of Nelson Mandela’s cell open he handed the man his machine gun, and together, they descended his zip line to safety, shooting at the SADF the entire way.

Tonight, my lifeboat crowns a soft current of Ventura Highway and Cecilia. I float far from the sun for now, but by the time it’s overhead I’ll have found land. I hope.

You are my canary and I was once a sullen crow with aspirations to be a starling. In either case, I’ll not cage your chamber music, but I’ll tweet along and our music will become the steam of my morning coffee.

Maybe the truth is, I am your widow it’d, Canary, and I am weighted by my own tail feathers to keep me from exposure. You small thing, you’ll curl up beneath my wing and as your head rests there, I’ll realize my feathers will part at your song.