DO YOUR BEST BUT FUCK THE REST BE SOMETHING!
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