Forget Magazine. Remember, Remember, Remember.

Puff and puff and puff—the asthmatic
gets mouth to mouth from that most
axiomatic accoutrements of modern youth:

not cigarettes, cellphones, happily dated
doses of Ritalin, but the Ventalin puffer
that tricky triage instrument in the latest

millennial drama of breathing and fitting
in. Kids, we’ve even co-opted
the parlance of smokers, and like

          the addicted, it’s all about the morning fix
                    followed by recess, lunch, P.E., soccer practice,
          and at least two before bed. Vertically

integrated business structures have us
in cahoots with the Coal-Burners Coalition
tiny time-bombs of pollen, mould-mines

on the wind, Sunflower by Elizabeth
Arden—a laundry list of particulates
that makes us one of the most success-

full of the chronic non-communicable
syndicates—or is it syndromes?—
that’s put the pinch on the pharmaco-

         logically inclined and those in search of
                     a word for what ails them, like Epstein-Barr,
         ADHD, or simply afraid. Aerosol

propellant, Turbohaler, or wrist operated
disk reminiscent of estrogen dosage
systems or a suped-up dispenser of Pez

for those whose oral fixation has moved
north into their nostrils, the quick kiss-
of-air comes in many shapes, colours

and delivery methods for the style conscious
hard-of-breath. We reach into the deepest
pockets of the lungs, squeeze o ut the oxygen.

Matthew Rader is currently breathing in Vancouver.