"It's about words, and words are all I have…"



Bowie’s face on a pillow in a window  in a place called

SPACE   Ersatz glam  workouts for the holier than cool

David’s face now mashed behind a snarling Torontonian

There are no girls with mousey hair  there   Has Bowie been

dead for 2 yrs.?


I step into  SPACE  +place my craggy hand on the growling

hipster’s shoulder   Have the decency to un-mash David Bowie

I flail  grabbing the pillow  +make haste along John St.    It is

65º today    In layers of mothy wool  I begin to feel quite faint

Though I have not fainted since packed against hard  Drive by

Trucker minions  at the Phoenix


Husband + brother still traumatized   Follow my every move with

hound-dog eyes   At our next concert  where if truth be told  I almost

swoon  at the feet of the sweet Afro’d singer  Benjamin Booker   The

room begins to spin  + I focus on a psychedelic eye  high in a corner

Whereupon   I am transported!


Up+up +up  into a stratosphere where: 40 yr. old cousins with 5 yr.old

sons do not die of lung cancer  on gorgeous Spring days  at St. Joes

(a hellhole  with no working oxygen machines in the Emergency)  In

this sphere  David Bowie + his mother  admire my new found joie de vivre


Newly freed from having to  be something   there is an undoing of the

stress fractures   My face relaxes   Teeth unclench   David’s mum says she

will find me a kimono + slippers    And David blows me   kisses



Back on Earth  Husband’s refrain:

What took you so long? What were you doing?

I was tying my bootlaces

Husband:  Oh  I thought you were having a stroke




Winter 2018   RIP David Bowie  January 10 2016

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