Mechanical Geese.

Once we've packed away the room fans
Aired out the heavy comforter your grandmother made for us
Cut down the perennials
And dug around for our socks
Even airplanes
become a gentle reminder
Of winter fast approaching.

The Ghost Hare's whiskers are twitching.

Tainted water like happiness.

I thought about you on my wedding day

I stood out on a spit, looking over the lake
and kicked off my shoes.

In my pocket I always keep the corner of a letter you once sent to me.
There isn't any writing on it, but I know that your hands have touched it.

I threw it into the lake that day
and cried.

It should have been over then

But I'm finding it was easier to keep you at bay
when I kept that piece of you
next to me.

For T.

How can I explain it to you?

Some people attach themselves to memories
without ever really walking into your life.

Life changing presences
are rarely around for the long haul.

After all, the long haul is for safe people who don't make history

Not your daddy.
I would have risked the homewrecking
And broken vows
Even now when I look in your eyes.

It could have been far more complicated
if I wasn't such a safe person
and if he wasn't the kind of man
I hope you'll be someday.

I can't pretend I'm not hurt. I can't pretend I don't care. And yet I know when a time's come.

Songwriters with demons as big as Wyoming
and rain falling though late evening summer sun
will always make me think of your daddy

And how bad I am at goodbye.

These fingers will be your undoing.

Your cotton shirt has pearl-front snaps
and you jeans are buttoned.

(in need of a wash)

Your wallet has worn a square into the back pocket.

Always with a belt
Keys on one of the loops.

Glasses and a hat-maybe a watch.
No- leave that on.

Piled on the kitchen floor.
That's how I picture it

Don't try to stay your breathing.

These fingers will be your undoing.

Homewrecker.

I see fathers
with children I'm glad aren't mine.

Always torn between stillness
and the motion of idealism

Too selfish to choose
and too stubborn to forget.

10:23

I wish transmuting experiences didn't take so fucking long.

3 piece suit.

I can't imagine endless days.
I can't take on forever
without cynicism.

Too much happens in one minute
to commit to anything more.

Now is all I can
(and all I will ever)
be able to offer.

This is not fear.

I'm not proud enough for that anymore.

When you left, I started drinking.

Everyone should have their heart broken

At least once.

Demolition is the easy part.
It's rebuilding that takes time.

Tennessee

I look at the photographs you sent me almost every day.

There's a vision I always have
of you sitting behind the wheel
while I pretend to sleep

In between daydreams
and the waking sting of discovery
I watch your taut shoulders

Your hat is pulled back
and your shirt is dusty
Soft smile
Windows rolled down

Body quieted
The ache and need
Replaced with a warm glow

It will always haunt me.

Not your touch-
Your absence.

Horizon to horizon.

The the flare and dissipation of a mountain sunset
can't match the slow dissolution of day
that comes from a sinking winter sun
over prairies.

Settling down for winter.

Powdered sugar snow.

Warm hands.

Falling madly in love with your record collection, when at first I thought it was you. It's less complicated this way.

Besides, no one could live up to those stacks.

Daydreams with amazing soundtracks.

Headphones as earmuffs.

Marshy law.

Ducks don't often talk about the mundane minutiae of their days with each other, I'm fairly certain they discuss the great questions of life. The Why's of the wise.

When the mundane of the city is replaced by the repose of the remote, we all become philosophers.

Soul.

I love it when a song makes you feel so good, your heart hurts.

That's the ache that makes being alive worth every sullen moment.

Misbehavin'

Your children are brats. They are walking all over you. This is your fault, and our patience is wearing thin.

Care to know the psychological effects of spanking in my own personal experience? Good behaviour and consistently happy and enjoyable family outings. Full stop. Spankings are not beatings. One swat on the bottom is a spanking. Somewhere out there on a slippery slope, a small, whiny special interest group has turned otherwise rational people into spies who call child welfare if they witness a bratty half pint being disciplined by their own parents. I challenge you to reason with a 4 year old- it is like reasoning with a stick. If I acted out while on an outing- guess what? The outing was over. Lesson learned.

Now, back to you, ma'am. Just because mommy needs a new blouse, doesn't mean the rest of the world should be subjected to the screeching and flailing and awfulness of your progeny because of YOUR poor parenting skills.

There are so many good kids out there that I meet every day (and great, patient parents). And well-behaved kids. And no, I realize this is not the library in an adults only complex. Kids will be kids, but your kids are giving kids a bad name.

Actions vs. Words

Thought: If you have a problem with it, perhaps you should march your manicured nails down there and volunteer your oh-so-valuable time, instead of standing on a soapbox ranting about how deplorable the situation is. Help. For fuck's sake. Stand there for yourself, elbow deep in hurt every day, and see just how little there is that you can do. Too much? Start something better. You clearly have a vision, and enough free time. Your lifestyle would suggest financial backing as well.

There is nothing more pathetic than words that don't carry any weight. Come on, humanity- rise above it.

Dear internet-

It's a lot harder to say what you want to when you're anonymous. I thought there would be some kind of freedom in it, but how we feel is so entirely wrapped up in who we are that I'm finding this exercise more difficult, and less liberating than I thought it would be. I suppose my desire for anonymity has always been accompanied by the need for silence. I will keep trying, though.

In other "reflections on the day" news....Sometimes I really enjoy taking the bus- no, really. Travelling with strangers can occasionally be a redeeming experience. For instance, tonight I shared a relatively empty bus with two Japanese kids, acoustic guitars slung across their laps, dressed in full 80's leather-metal regalia (one even had a gauntlet- A BONAFIDE ROB HALFORD GAUNTLET!). Though I don't think they spoke much English, at one point their conversation was punctuated with "LOCK AND LOLL!" complete with fist pumps. It made me want to buy them a beeru, and see what Japanese acoustic hair metal sounded like.

Though sometimes it's hard to wipe all the dirt away, even the shittiest cities have warm, bright spots that can make you feel a little more human.

With love,

The Ghost Hare.

Shostakovich is on the radio.

I'm imagining myself wearing an ushanka, thick coat, and worn boots, trudging through the Caucasus with a rifle slung over my shoulder.

Or maybe it's pre-revolution, with Romanoff-ian furs, woollen blankets and horse-drawn sleighs.

Either way, it sounds like Russia. All the same slow snow, black humour, hardened grandeur tempered with sadness.

I don't know why I started with what seems to be free-form prosetry- my sincerest apologies. It makes me feel like I'm 17 again.

This morning has been fraught with awkwardness, and anxiety, in spite of the sunshine. I'm trying to revive my optimism, but if I had the choice, I'd pull my head under the covers and opt out of today. And no, I don't want to get into a choice/ free will rant. Baby steps.

My desk is so cluttered I can't see the formica for the trees. On the to do list.

With love,

The Ghost Hare.

Sunshine

Ice forming on the river.

Not yet solid.

Taxicabs that smell like bubblegum.


The sky was so huge this morning it made me feel invincible, and light.

First.

To renew/ to new beginnings.

To breath ringed with snow.

To trudge on with cold paws, lukewarm tea, and a heart filled with curiosity.

And change.

It is going to start here.

More to come, but until then tread softly and mind your way.

With love,

The Ghost Hare.