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House of Hummingbirds

by House of Hummingbirds

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1.
The House 01:20
There is a house on the hill which flutters with strange sounds, like psalms being sung by hummingbirds. No man or woman goes in or out, no post is delivered to the mailbox. Sometimes I sense shadows of songs being sung from the windows of the house, but I know these are only tricks. One day, in the cool, dry air of autumn, I lessened my pace as I passed by. Small silhouettes flitted to and fro, and snatches of music floated atop the breeze. I walked up the pathway, to see what I could of this mysterious and lively structure. What I saw was baffling: the house was not a house at all. Rather, it was made entirely of birds. It was a House of Hummingbirds, where Word and Song combined, and I could not split them apart… like an atom that refused to bend to the will of its tormenters, or like the perfect symmetry we wish we all sported. The forest beyond the hill is quiet. Now, let us explore.
2.
Future Son 02:34
Future Son Plank-deck hobby sparkling relentless, you ride – a silhouette against the grey, a pirouette of flippancy amongst the greens, an accent on the acuity of yellow sun-rays. Follow the cement circuit; breaker of the breeze, you are of timeless continuity. Step off hard, the seashell-aggregate will push back, propelling the plank forward into this keen contrast. Vibration of the wheels over rough pavement will stall the movement of oiled bearings. Get them, the hallowed blank spaces that emerge from the textures of the clouds. Alight, and chase the spectres which burn relentlessly in the hearts of the crows, spraying music into the branches. Climb toward epiphany, future son and do not fear the crows, for the notes will strike the strings – not the other way around. The bend approaches, feint slightly, lean into the embrace of gravity, and remember your gewgaw-ish frictional quality which spurs all men and women against you willingly; do not alight lightly. The epic awaits you, future son; one day you will know why crows remain in the branches, why they seldom speak unless threatened or mating, and why the wheels beneath you will never stop burning track-marks into the concrete. One day you will know all this, should you choose to accept it, and you will then be a friend to the music inside you.
3.
Broken Glass 04:08
Broken Glass I wish you knew what your words could do. I wish you knew what your words could do. I am made of glass, and you’re a sledgehammer. I am made of glass, and you’re a sledgehammer. Cracks are spreading, time is running out. Cracks are spreading, time is running out. I am made of glass, and you’re a sledgehammer. I am made of glass, and you’re a sledgehammer. Oh, this heart: shattered now, there are only shards. Scatter them, spread the love in each fragment. I wish you knew what your words could do. I wish you knew what your words could do. I am made of glass, and you’re a sledgehammer. I am made of glass, and you’re a sledgehammer. Cracks are spreading, time is running out. Cracks are spreading, time is running out. I am made of glass, and you’re a sledgehammer. I am made of glass, and you’re a sledgehammer. My love will cover this earth as shards of glass. And I hope your pain will heal, and may you understand mine. May your heart soften. May your sledgehammer dissolve and may love dissuade you from the seduction of hatred. In the end, we’ll all be ground to dust, and your hammer will fall for the last time. I hope that, by then, it will no longer be a hammer, but a warm hand outstretched and ready to give nothing but love. In the end, we’ll all be ground to dust.
4.
The Myth 03:00
The Myth It is easy to remember palm trees flying past in the dark of night, but not what they looked like. Their fingers must have reached to us, grasping for a chance to be mobile, on the move, like we always were. “They” is a better word, since most of my time passed by within the confines of a pair of ear-sized speakers. I opened Pandora’s box for hours on end each night, allowing sonic truths to float through my brain, while palm trees raced after my friends. My memories are holograms. I disagree with the myth. I wanted to combust. I still disagree with the myth. I often dreamed of a stage lit with pillars of fire and light-beams of heavenly strength shining upon me. I could never see the rest of the band in my holograms. The palm trees continued to grasp for a chance at movement; they waved gently outside my window, beyond the worn pane of glass and the checkerboard of the screen, begging me to include them in my dreams of fame and fire. I imagined myself sitting upon a miniature throne in the back seat of a metal carriage, while each of my advisers commented on the oppressiveness of the night air. I imagined myself seeping through the cracks in the hardwood floor – as if it were bad concrete with weak aggregate – of my bedroom, taking Pandora’s box with me, and delivering bits of truth to the curved fingers of each tree while sliding through chlorophyll-saturated veins. I have been reaching for them ever since, trying to find the truth in the myth of adolescence.
5.
In Need of Color Lower your fists! There is beauty in everyone. There are reasons for all of us to exist. There is beauty in everyone. We’ll raise our hearts, lower our fists. Some days, I want to pull all these plugs. Not in self-destruction, simply in disconnection. Some days, I want to run away from all this sadness, from all the pain I see. I cannot connect. I cannot connect. I cannot connect. I cannot connect. (We need more color!) There is beauty in everyone. There are reasons for all of us to exist. There is beauty in everyone. We’ll raise our hearts, lower our fists. Tell me everything. Tell me all of it. Tell me what I can say, tell me what I can do. Tell me all of it. Tell me all of you. I want to know the burden. I’ll help you carry it. Help me connect. Help me connect. Help me connect. Help me connect. I want to know how it feels to blend in with the darkness. I want to know how it feels to be invisible. I want to know how it feels to stand tall and with strength. I want to know we’ll feel when we open our hearts. Come take my place. There is beauty in everyone. There are reasons for all of us to exist. There is beauty in everyone. We’ll raise our hearts, lower our fists. Instead of shining in the sunlight, I need to feel like I’ve been snuffed out. Because that’s what you feel, and that’s what you know. Come take my place, come take my place.
6.
Powderhorn 04:23
Powderhorn The park’s name is Powderhorn, which often makes me imagine dragons composed only of the sugar in Pixi Stix as if they were torn open and splayed out in rainbow arrays of sour dust. My sister and I used to make ourselves dizzy and nauseous by spinning each other around and around on a huge disk with handholds. We held on to the bars while my mother or father or nana or papa launched the disk into circles, and it always seemed to feel to me like time was suspended in the midst of our rotations. I wonder what would happen if I spun on it now, wildly and with abandon. Time might warp and fold onto itself, and I might be teleported back to the year 1999: the brink of a new millennium. The park was painted orange and blue back then, and the paint was fading and chipped in many places. Now it is a fresh composite of green, which matches the trees and hedges surrounding the park, and beige, which almost blends in with the sand. But it is still lonely, the way that a blade of grass, taller than all of the others around it, catches one’s attention for a moment and is quickly forgotten. There used to be a ficus hedge that ran along the border between sand and grass, and behind the swingset. It must have been slain while I was away; how attached we grow to the objects of memories. My sister and I used to try to swing high enough to vault over the hedge, but I don’t think I ever had the courage to actually try.
7.
Vista 04:37
Vista A landscape exists within me. My heart is a cloud that rains upon the soil. It spills its bitter precipitation with little regard for the flooding that may occur. I have no levies to stop the torrent. I have built no dams. I have little choice but to accept the maelstrom obliterating my landscape. Every last scrap of my will is torn away, and the pain becomes a heavy distortion of reality. To realize that one is simply a mouse is to understand the nature of prey. I am the mouse in the grip of the boa, only able to observe and experience my total and utter destruction at the behest of her coiled emotions. Tighter, ever tighter am I squeezed. She is the coiled boa. I am but a small rodent in her grasp. I feel her grip tighten, even as she draws away from me. The wind leaves my lungs and spills across the land before me. I fill the rugged, bitter soil with my pain. I caress the sinister blades of grass with my despair. My inner light is growing dim, and my song is fading. She is the coiled boa. I am but a small rodent in her grasp. I will sing this song desperately to the battered landscape that is my soul. No! I will shatter what is left of my old self as she slithers away. I will gather the shards of my integrity, and I will construct the strongest levies, dams, walls, barricades, barriers, and floodgates that my inner world has ever known. I will stand the test of time. A New Great Wall shall surround my heart. Inside the Wall shall stand a kingdom of hope. The livestock roaming free, the gentle breeze jostling the branches of the trees, the fields sweeping across the horizon in never-ending emerald. My pain begins to fade, but still yet I feel the bitter sting of guilt, like an ember on my skin. She was the coiled boa. I was a small rodent. No longer will she dominate this throne: my heart. My hope will stand guarded by the wall around my heart. My hope will stand feebly in the wake of a maelstrom. My hope will not be crushed by the grip of a boa. My hope will overthrow my pain.
8.
Burn Through the Artifice Detritus devolving, concrete infinity, burn through the artifice. Find nothing that can stop the onslaught of the laser that bores into ice, shattering the consciousness of the elite in one fell swoop. Burn through the artifice. Standing is more work than infinity would ever admit, especially on the feet of silence. Muse-speaker, cite an artificial blank and ride onward into the swooping ice-fall. Grasping for inkwells, the palm leaves slip on puddles of beaming sunlight. Sing onto a ballpoint pen until all can be found within the flattened carcass of an idea. Burn through the artifice. Standing on infinity works if silence allows infinity to speak. Beyond-traveler, hold the hands of the cube of ice which melts in puddles of heat. Empty glasses seem to sparkle relentlessly in the corners of the concrete. Where shall the poles retreat to in the dead of wintry elitism? Standing on infinity is harder then you’d think. Burning through the artifice. We are all on the brink. Burn, Burning through Burn, Burning through Burn, Burning through Burn, Burning through
9.
A Floridian Scrapbook There is no winter here. The summer is eternal. If one listens carefully, one can hear the subtle wingbeats of the birds overhead. Those black birds ― numerous and nameless ― stalk the skies that are so serenely spotted with sculpted, billowing clouds. One tends to wonder, during the eternal summers, why the birds don’t get trapped in clouds. As a child, one asks these sorts of questions. As a poet, one returns to them. There is no winter here. No gentle snowfalls blanket the landscape with silence. Christmas feels no different than the Fourth of July, some years. The summer is eternal. The birds continue to swoop and dive through landscapes that are sculpted by faceless men. They sometimes forsake the company of the clouds for the canopy of castles. The men are numerous and nameless, and they shape the world around the passerby. One wonders why the hedges don’t rebel against their abusers. As a poet, one asks such questions. One notices that the roadsides collect dust and grime over days of rainfall, but are only pressure-cleaned every few months. One wonders how the roads feel about being so filthy. One wonders if the pressure-cleaners hurt. One wonders how the roads endure ― driven over and stomped on and bombarded with water that they never asked for. As a child, or a poet, one asks such questions. The dead, stale air of the summer clings to one’s skin. The summer is eternal. I don’t know where I’ll go from here, but I know what will remain: the palms and beaches are still in my heart, even though I’ve sworn not to return. I know I’ll be back. I’ll be drawn by the breeze and the smell of saltwater seas. I can still feel the sun forever calling me home. How the rains cleanse us, it is difficult to know. Salt spray is alive in each drop of condensation, and they sparkle as the hologram of my soul. I walk out into the dampness and hear distant music. I would like to capture it; I would like to make it mine. I would shape the sounds, and make them cry. I would squeeze every last raindrop from their eyes, and taste the salt that hovers within each one. I would sing the palm trees to life with my thunderclaps, harnessing the energy I would capture. The music would tickle the edges of the sky, and cleanse them, spreading each singular musical memory through the particles of salt that fall from my eyes. There are always outliers atop the hedges, jutting tendrils of leaves which refuse to obey. Through the gaps in the ficus, the occasional car passes by, leaving air molecules disturbed in its wake. The sound is like a dissatisfied beast, grumbling as it is awoken from its slumber. How green and blue can clash so much, it is a mystery, and why they have such simple names is also unknown to me. Rebel branches are reminiscent of fingers, reaching into the expanse of sky above and defying the shapeliness otherwise imposed on the ficus hedges. The air smells of suppressed serenity here; whispers that have smells, and smells that have whispers, waft to my tympanic membrane. The vivace of the birds is unceasing. It is the march of the living, defying the beasts, and embracing the gentle battle of green and blue. Harmony is a side effect of discomfort between equals. The trees have taught us this, yet we forget it when the holes in the ficus hedges reveal the machines. The outliers only want freedom, and I say let them be. But, inevitably, the hedge-trimmers will come. All around me, shining, is an endless green, until the sun-stained shores at the edge of the sea. Can you feel the sting of the lashing surf? Can you hear the voice of the ocean, risen? One day, the rain came violently. It was a siege upon the landscape, water-bullets flung from Gatling guns. The sky-guns continued to open fire pummeling the hardy blades of grass. The sun-soaked skies gave way to the harrowing aggressions of atmospheric soldiers. One must look directly at the clouds, which are revealed by the absence of light. Note the gaps in the stars above. There are ever fewer stars each time I revisit this latitude. There are ever fewer stars in my sky. As a thunderstorm rolls in, I feel the inexplicable need to run out into the rain.
10.
Verse for You I remember the first time I saw you walking through the halls and looking down. Your hair was disheveled but not without some order, like you did your best to hide your inner burdens. You looked up for a moment to check your surroundings and you saw the smile I couldn’t help but wear as I walked by. I looked down at my feet to hide my flushed complexion. Your beauty and your stress were both compelling. I knew that I was in for a challenge or maybe a chance at love but we both know that a pane of glass that’s cracked will break. And now it’s months later and we’ve left scars to prove that we “loved and lost” and all of those clichés. Where there aren’t scars there are scabs, and I’ve picked at them for weeks, leaving all the usual wounds of the past. And with every day that passes, I’m seeing bigger shadows in places where they’ve never even been. It’s your ghost that haunts me everywhere, and even though I see you, your shadow still persists. So I’ll stare at you each day and every time you smile there’ll be shades of red and pink that fade to grey. Your colors are bright today, but by tomorrow they’ll start to wash and fade with the rain. Because it’s coming, the rain, and nothing can stop it. I watch the clouds roll in and hold my breath. Until we fade, and wash away. Until we fade.
11.
Dear Friends 02:09
Dear Friends, I hope these words reach you well. I’ve been forming this message for a while now, and I’m sending it encased in a bottle of hope. Each word is a tiny piece of balsa wood in our model sailboat. This is a delicate message. I pray it does not break before it reaches you. Keep reminding yourselves that the world is beautiful. Keep reminding yourselves that people are good. Keep reminding yourselves that life is a precious gift. We will only change this world through our willingness to love. Our ship is not sinking; this I promise you. Our ties bind us closer than ever before. We are not failing. We are not losing. We are patching our sails, filling the holes in our hull, and raising the anchor. This ship will sail again on the winds of love and compassion. We will always rebuild what is destroyed; this, I promise you. Keep reminding yourselves to smile. Keep your chin up, as they say, and meet anger and hatred head-on. Embrace those who would do you harm. Smother evil with kindness. Shine light into the darkest recesses of our collective human condition. Bare your heart to the world and let your love shine like the blinding center of the universe. Burn so brightly with happiness that every black hole in the cosmos collapses. Overload the darkness. Challenge them to contain you. Do not be afraid to wear your heart on your sleeve. In fact, let your heart grow so large that it encapsulates your entire body. You will glow. You are starlight. Tattoo love upon your body without a single drop of ink. Your every step will carve compassion into the collapsing hearts of those losing hope. The surface of this earth is ready to shake and tremble with your magnificent strides. Eyes open, hearts open wider, and we will make a difference. We will sail onward into the blackness. It shall never contain us.

about

This full-length debut from House of Hummingbirds blends poetry with a post-rock and punk aesthetic. The music is at times reflective, at others aggressive, and still yet inspirational. Compared by fans to "An American Prayer" by Jim Morrison and The Doors, the "Here, Hear." EPs by La Dispute, and the poems of Shane Koyczan, this collection hovers between genres and styles with grace and intensity.

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released September 26, 2017

Recorded at the Duderstadt Center Audio Studio at the University of Michigan and Big Sky Studios in Ann Arbor, Michigan.

Edited, mixed, and mastered by Nelson Gast.

Album artwork by Melanie Klein.

Music and lyrics Copyright 2017 Evan Zegiel / House of Hummingbirds.

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House of Hummingbirds Ann Arbor, Michigan

House of Hummingbirds exists to burn through the artifice of the digital age and reconnect with the beauty of human emotions.

Evan Zegiel has been writing poetry and lyrics for years. He is primarily an orchestral tuba player, but has been playing bass and electric guitar for about the same amount of time. Merging those skills resulted in the birth of House of Hummingbirds.
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