Geminids? 2 fukN layZ
lack of ambition
another cosmic shower missed
Geminids shower mid December comes;
Dry clouds shroud my patch of planet.
My bed, beneath warm covers, remain I;
Old man sleep trumping ambition.
mid December show
clouds curtain from my viewing
covers over head
Thirty-two Hundred Phaethon comes, son of the sun, from Gemini’s twin bosoms spawn star stuff! Stuff of which ALL is born. Man, woman, butterfly, sky; the ever lovin’ music of the manic cosmic spheres, man; did you never like listen, I mean, really listen to Sagan, man! Growing strong, lasting longer; a hundred…one twenty…one thirty…one forty…one fifty…one sixty an hour shower down in the wee hours across the depths of sky…. Hidden behind the dry shroud curtain of rainless cloud that blankets this patch of planet we call home. Three a.m. calls anyway, as usual; and you’re up to pee, anyway, as usual, knowing it’s out there; silent, slow streaming at two dozen miles per second some two dozen miles high; and all you can do is stand with junk in your hand, slow streaming, pissing the night away because it’s, well, cold out there and the damned clouds block the view, and if you’re quick enough shaking off the dew, the warm spot you left so carefully laid between the covers still will be there to welcome you back to the comforters’ fold. What the hey, right? They’ll be back next December, right? Unless, of course, the ancient Mayans got it right. Good night.