Gemini’s Birthday Song

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A Gemini morning, humid, Eastern heat-spilled impatience and placenta to the floor,

Happy birthday to you

A baby double minded, twice as sure of his kingship poured from his womb-like throne

Happy birthday to you

Onto polished bamboo floor, flat-rolled expanse from bedroom to corridor then veranda.

Happy birthday dear Gemini

Whose royalty slips past a princely generation, crown-less, buried beneath rice paddies?

Happy birthday to you

A squandering son, spendthrift and sensual, carried epicure’s pleasure palace to the abyss,

How old are you now?

Never the same, depleted, arrested at shore along middle class havens harboring mediocre

How old are you now?

Table wear and linen unrefined, delicacies grown bloated, mutational and cloying starchy

How old are you now, dear Gemini.

Sweet-salty in heavy-handed cookery, fraudulent design and mockery, a chef’s despair.

How old are you now?

Proud May’s retreat, your promises half-fulfilled pool like soaking wet wool slogging

For he’s a jolly good fellow

Footfall’s dawn soft pacing to a slipper shuffle, grey questioning the doubtful days.

For he’s a jolly good fellow

A heyday haunting lingers along fleshy palms, midriffs and necks, a puffy sight.

For he’s a jolly good fellow

Back-look now, mid-life, sandwiched between regret and hope–a dual mind–

That nobody can deny

Celebration calls a prince-of-the-day to candle-caked song once more.

 

 
Credit: Gemini on Pinterest

Thanatos’ grip

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While I watch the apple un-peel, fix
Itself, I linger in null space,

Avoided aftermath, just between
Speculation and the deed is done.

I’m re-tired, now dogs barking in
The night’s just one more sign, like

Leaky bladders and bland food, apples
The exception. Pings, dings and

Pop-ups neither move nor inspire me to
Seek, dread or despair any longer.

Words dare me to, but fail to enamor, not
Like sleep, food or crapping does in

Human reduction to thin necessity, like
Light, an illusory mass beating us down

Pressing us in struggle, your God against
Mine, Eros ahead falling to Thanatos’ grip.

Heritage Now

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With fever and chills, my father lies in a hospital bed and

fights invaders ransacking his cells while we, her dad and I,

Share ancestral history over wine and braised Brussels sprouts.
 
Her father pulls out an album of black and whites painting shades,

Faces that look like his and hers, she who hungrily leafs through

Her fore-figures shepherding precious genetic messages, DNA,

Carried on lines like cargo bins rolling down mining tracks,

Straight to the mountain’s core, our heart’s beating back minutes

Through rock and river, rice paddies and leper camps, continents

And decades all swum, waded through generations of race, religion,

Geography and cultural diaspora, lost at sea; my people roamed.

I tell her we were gypsies and exiles, imperialists and colonizers,

Journalists and piano-tuners, soldiers and artists, musicians

And doctors, lawyers, painters and prisoners; we sailed on ships.

She eats the images page after page flying and flashing ghosts

In pressing drive, primal ranging expansive lust for connection,

An answer to why she is, these cellular haunts flooding her veins.

She wants to know the stories that she belongs to, her threaded

Braide-links to French, Spanish, Vietnamese, Rumanian, Russian, Latvian
 
and German world walkers. She doesn’t know yet, which link connects them all,
 
all the grandfather’s fathers and their fathers’ fathers before.
 
She doesn’t know the whole story and she can never know.