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

Gemini 

 

 
Gemini’s bloom, neither starry aster nor royal poinsettia

seasons too late for the rose of summer skies.

One dies brightly, late fall’s supernova, while another paints icy lips ruby.

Your velvet blush pairs story-eyed girls with breathless boys re-enacting everlasting joy;

unrevealed how your Bristly Roseslug Cladius difformis and red spider mite underside,

 laced and aching,   

cache closes the thin divine like children threading hearts to paper clips in kinder class.

Honored sister, pour your swooning sorrow into my hands and let your brave face die.

No man, beast or garden silk delivered so much to so many for so long. 

Release the weight of your beatific crown, heavy with curved care, and sink.

Another June will call your name in vein-flow some day soon.

 
credit: flikr.com