Backseat Driver
I'll be your backseat driver, on our way to unknown places. I'll turn the wheel, and we'll go nowhere, fast. I'll pull out the map and plan a long hike we'd rather not take. The license plate on this rustbucket reads 1982, so her last days driving still predate me by five years. It's been a long way down, drug to the far side of the field and stripped for parts. There's no honour in aging when you're living in the land of the latest and greatest. At least, that's the story I'm telling. I'm selling you an urge to wander, a rocky ride down a pot-holed road, chasing thunder...


I'm getting caught in the rush of dreams
I can't climb in, I can't hold back
I can't be the train to your railroad track
you've pulled up the iron
you've scrapped the steel
you've traded the steam
for the road and the wheel...
one day, when I'm too old and too free
I'll tell you all about the turn of the century
before modern mobility and miscommunication
became the life and death of the complication nation
I don't know if you can tell
but I'm cracking up in this mechanical shell
this net that I'm trapped in
is a world wide well
and my telephone is a cell
it's never been newer
this shiny, sweet life
this perfect poison of sugar and spice
this shuttering sound of curtains crashing down
as the sharp sun rises on another night
it's not the light that I can't handle
it's the timing of it all
the green field that follows the mile-high wall
(at least they tell me it's there)
on the far side of faith
where running backwards
is the only way to win the race...


 April 5, 2017
Mount Rose, Nova Scotia