Still hobbled by the hard drive crash but holding fast, the only way I know how to live. This week I battle the flu, a particularly nasty strain, which at its onset, made me feel certain I was dying. But the sun is shining and I’ve been thrown a few life lines. Pandora’s Collective will honour me with an award and I managed to write lyrics for my nephew, which made me very happy. As he pointed out, we’ve come full circle. An Alberta boy, K moved out to the coast a few years ago, playing bass in a band in Vancouver venues in and around my punk rock stomping grounds. Then he bought a nice guitar and started writing songs. He made my year asking me to collaborate. Bonus; I get my song writing chops back and we hang out together.

A poem, then. It seems apropos in light of Madonna’s Super Bowl performance, which I didn’t watch. Once viewed as a flash in the pan, I just like that she’s endured, is still out there being Madonna. So onward and upward, and fight back indeed.

How To Remain

How to remain
thin. Abstain. Abstain from eating
food. Calories kill
the fat rats first. If she could say No
and balance Belgian truffles on her tongue
briefly before spitting them out,
she might remain. Live
long. Enjoy fruition. By shunning urges,
she could linger—dainty as a colt’s
foot—deploying her charms raw,
dogtrotting a straddled chocolate Arabian
through mazes of lane. She could retire
to her body.

Alas, ankles thicken, braids recede,
the old mare conjured whenever she dare
look. Fight back. She may be forced to
cover the grey, yellow, but refuses to swallow
diet pills. Amphetamines in the olden days.

Still, dinner in the garbage rouses niggles
of guilt. She snuffles it out before Buddy can,
barfing rather than blowing
calories on fusty pizza
or molding, olive oil-sopped arugula.

(I am eating well; lots of chicken soup.)