Hockey & Prose

So tonight's the big night...game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals!  I'm pretty excited.  This is the first year ever that I've paid any attention whatsoever to hockey and it's been a good year.  Of course I cheered for the Maple Leafs, and also rooted for the New Jersey Devils, and neither of them turned out enough to even make the play-offs, but both had a good showing in the last half of the season and it was very entertaining watching to see if they could pull it off.  I'm looking forward to next year.  

As for tonight, well of course as a Canadian I'm rooting for the Canucks.  Luongo provides lots of drama.  When he's on his game he's a superstar, other times not so much.  I do like Boston too.  Tim Thomas is stellar.  Whoever wins I've had a fun ride.

So yeah, after 34 years as a Canadian citizen, 26 or so spent IN Canada, I've finally been converted.  Go Canucks!!!

Anyway since I don't have that much to say about hockey, and to prove that I'm still the sissy-boy you all know and love, here's  a bit of prose I wrote the other day...it seems depressing but it's not.

I am a wasting disease.
Strip away the parts of me that I no longer want or need.
Losing so much of myself, that which is no longer essential.
Inundate myself to loss that I might become immune, to that which came before and that which will come soon.

I transform into a leaner, harder self.  Generosity is a slow, seeping wound and I am drained of all my fluids.  I would not have you reciprocate.

I am respawned as a dry being, paper and leather, wire and bone, dust and glass.  Everything that once was is now reshaped into something modern and incomprehensible.  My new skin is fire.  I leave a smudge of ash on your fragile cheek.  

I am remade
I am hallucination
I am a wasting disease.