I Can't Get You Out of My Head

I Can’t Get You Out of My Head


“A bird-organ is a small barrel-organ used in teaching birds to sing.”
-John Ogilvie, The Comprehensive English Dictionary, London, 1865.


Ah, canary, you chronic mimic,
Do you find any joy in the cover song?
Of course, you must. You’re an echo addict
Who can’t stop himself from singing along

With the bird-organ. It’s an odd machine,
Rather arrogant, in fact. What asshole
Believes a wooden box’s melody
Is more beautiful and original

Than the canary’s indigenous croon?
What kind of blasphemous, hell-bound dickwad
Thinks a man’s hands are more clever than God’s?
Well, I’m a sinner in love with iTunes

And that lovely manmade box, the iPod.
And if that gets me in trouble with God,

Then may God’s lightning fingers choke me dead,
Because I think the Flaming Lips’ cover
Of “I Can’t Get You Out Of My Head”
Is filled with far more fear, lust, and wonder

Than Kylie Minogue’s worldwide dance hit.
Okay, now, maybe you don’t give a shit,
But my theory (and it’s a betrayal
Of my tribe) is that art is colonial,

And the best art is imperialistic.
I know it’s wildly masochistic
For an Indian to advance this belief,
But I’m also a Picassoesque thief,

A carnivorous and scavenging bird
Who’ll echo, borrow, and steal your words

If given the chance. There is no treaty
I will not bend, bust, ignore, or screw.
But, no, wait, that’s not exactly true.
I don’t write about sacred ceremonies,

And I rarely speak the names of the dead—
Though I’m going to violate those taboos
Right now in this poem. I suspect you knew
That I break promises with each breath,

But trust me when I tell you this story:
Years ago, a white archeologist
Recorded a tribal ceremony
On my rez. The tape crackles and hisses,

But one can clearly hear my grandmother
Singing. O, her voice comes from some other,

Alien place in her body. That song
Died with my grandmother, or so you’d think,
But whenever I want to hear her sing,
I just press play on my boom box. It’s wrong,

I suppose, to worship a duplicate,
But I think, “Screw you, it’s decades too late
To save the original.” I’ll worship
My grandmother’s voice and the Flaming Lips,

Live or recorded. I guess, near the end,
I am arguing against nostalgia.
I will not believe “it was better then.”
After all, each of us is a replica,

And I think God gave us these music toys
So we can create and hoard glorious noise.



Sherman Alexie