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Unfinished Bird

by Van Reipen Collective

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1.
Driving Driving to the drugstore Driving to the drugstore in July shiny heat and humming green green leaves with backlit veins. Fresh Air throbs around an open window something in Afghanistan, casualties, in the heat your eczema is erupting, clouds mound and bubble like old knees with tumid veins. Stop light. Zeppelin. This dirigible mind means go where you are This dirigible mind means go where you are This dirigible mind means go where you are This dirigible mind means go where you are —static, clattering pacifier, screaming screaming green leaves, red flags marks made by survey on the skin of the city, say cut here the dotted line roughly defining this moment.
2.
Immediate starscape— clinking baseboard heat, dripping invisible eaves on this blinding, thirty-nine-degree day. Afternoon light wanes upward around our capsule, which rolls through space through space and possibility through space and possibility through space and possibility of late snow. Nothing moves but drops from the gutter, red cardinal on wrought table, walking on thick, soft ice. We are flying away We are flying away We are flying away We are flying away from a thirty-five-year-old world r ecedes to a pin head, pinched out and relativity with it. You enormous moon I orbit You enormous moon I orbit and around me, unfinished bird, and around me, unfinished bird, Moving between countless snowy mountains with small, sharp scapulas, budding wings, fear of flight. fear of flight.
3.
Dividing till there's no difference or my favorite paradox— if the hare never gets anywhere let's just fold up here fold paper doves from dollars and sell them for fifty cents. 2010 census-takers trudge the sidewalks, collared shirts shoved into slacks. The concrete gleams with heat (and minerals,) old gum circles rubbed black and smooth (with ragged edges,) suspicious moles on the city's ravaged skin —not ravaged so much as dividing cell over cell, Midas's mountain of metastatic gold. We're on the other side of the screen, singing an endless accumulating lullaby— mama's gonna buy you a little box in which to store these ruins. in which to store these ruins. mama's gonna buy you a little box in which to store these ruins. Midas's mountain Midas's mountain Midas's mountain of metastatic gold. mountain of metastatic gold. cell over cell over cell over sell over sell
4.
The best things are always created by accident— this dropped into a boiling vat of that. Horror stories of non-intention (thirteen years of piano lessons) I am paralyzed by my power of suggestion— I held you in my arms at the edge of Ned's grave, in the doorway of my empty childhood bedroom— my Prince of Potato Chips, this sentimental primogeniture whereby you can have it all my fragments, these ruins, etc. my Prince of Potato Chips, Just So stories about loss and how you diluted it with the fact of your newness. It's not fair or accidental, this sentimental primogeniture whereby you can have it all my fragments, these ruins, etc. my Prince of Potato Chips, my Prince of Potato Chips
5.
Fins 02:31
From the gap in the blackout curtains at the mid-range hotel a slice of light falls on your face. Your halo is shaped like a rapier by which you are cruelly pinned. Your writhing reminds me of the Easter Island Birdman glyphs on the edge of a precipice overlooking two thousand miles worth of water. All that bloody worship of virtually worthless wings, when fins would be far more useful. And you, determined bird, fight fight fight the conditions of your cage ringed ringed ringed with insipid sea creatures. In the rough shard of light, your pelagic eyes look past me for a better escape hatch must be seeing things
6.
Body of Work 02:15
A body of work A body of work made A body of work made of made of its medium— bone needle drawing sinew through hide, bone needle drawing sinew through hide, art made of media. art made of media I love a dead end and wish you no means, bite my chin till it bleeds. A body of bones arrows suggested trajectories. arrows suggested trajectories. Another tooth broken through this morning and I miss the smooth space it replaced. I miss the smooth space it replaced. Every day a new barb or barbicel to pierce a new hole in the tenderness I've given you.
7.
Willow 05:05
As a willow with the weight of its own profusion, you're asleep upstairs in a close, dark room, thighs slashed with red, weepy creases, features relaxed into TV-baby mounds. A limp magazine stuck to my lap— I am empty and impenetrable. Invisible green-gloved fingers extend around my neck. Birds peck - peck and drone. I want to wake you, let you bite my chin, with your two new teeth, will cut the skin. if I let them. You are the warm metal rack from which I hang my IV bag— You are the warm metal rack from which I hang my IV bag— a slow drip, relieving pain and its relief, I must contain everything afforded by gravity.
8.
Your shape when you sleep is the dead-man wingding from the first chapter of Trenchtown Rock— arms bent up at ninety degrees legs splayed out and down, frog-like, students love it, think they get it, can't decide if it's cheap or not students love it, think they get it, can't decide if it's cheap or not. You're so quiet, I hear traffic through the monitor, it's five a.m. and I can't sleep. Light brightens blandly behind the window. You are the sun You are the sun enabling life with your own unwitting combustion while I am the grass I am the grass underscoring the blank places by just lying here, You are the sun (I am the grass) You are the sun (I am the grass) You are the sun (I am the grass) You are the sun….while….. I am the grass (you are the sun) I am the grass (you are the sun) I am the grass (you are the sun) but I'd do anything to cover you up. I'd do anything to cover you up. I'd do anything to cover you up. I'd do anything to cover you up. I'd do anything to cover you up. I'd do anything to cover you up. I'd do anything to cover you up.

about

Music from Van Reipen Collective's UNFINISHED BIRD, a theatricalized song cycle, based on Kate Colby's 'Unfinished Bird' poems and other writings. UNFINISHED BIRD first showed at Ruby Slipper Fringe Festival in February 2016.

credits

released November 16, 2016

Cassandra Victoria Chopourian vocals, tenor guitar;
Donna Drinnen backup vocals
Sara Jane Mann backup vocals, melodica, percussion;
Gary Heidt electric bass;
Lisa Woods percussion; toy piano
Tom Woods drums, soprano ukelele;

Lyrics from Kate Colby's Unfinished Bird, Blue Hole (2016)
Written by Cassandra V Chopourian & band
Recorded and mixed by Gary Heidt
Mastered by Mark Tulk / Small House Creative
Cover art by SJ Mann

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Van Reipen Collective Greensboro, North Carolina

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