breathe

snow-tipped air
sharp in a throat
sore
from born-again smoking

glide
through the raw
red
circular slide

race through the
fractal map
of my dying lungs
charge through to
my bleeding heart
surge up to
my flailing brain

a rush of cool
of perfect
of fulfillment
of everything
and then
so quickly
it races away
hot,
tainted
bumping
and grinding
its way out of the pink

and then again
and
again
innnnn
and
ah
o
ooout.

his & hers

so ok, maybe i'm getting old...

but i tell ya, i'm sick to death of the avant-garde/post-modern/pre-i-don't-know-what inspiring bar and restaurant owners. specifically, i'm tired of having to spend valuable peeing time deciphering clever, genderless photos or symbols on bathroom doors.

ok, i can appreciate everyone wants to be clever, and hooray for them. really. i fully and heartily encourage cleverness and artfulness and creativity. but there's a limit, isn't there?

the other day, my friend alana and i were both fooled by the very effeminate pilot on the door to a toronto bar's washroom. it was only the (blessedly empty) urinals upon entry that gave away that this was no chick's washroom.

i know it doesn't matter for single-occupancy rooms, but what dude wants some chick walking in while he's talking to a man about a horse? or, for that matter, if he does happen to want it: what chick wants to be in that situation?

can we please just go back to good ol' fashioned "his and hers" logos that stodgy old fogeys like me can interpret? please??

(grin)