ISSUE: Winter 2001
meets once a year
to re-evaluate old myths
that spangle heaven:
Taurus, Draco,
Perseus,
Boötes. . .
outdated in their Greek shining.
Quickly renamed,
they are reconfigured into modern shapes
—cluster by cluster—
Guitarus Major, Double Arches,
Empire State Building,
Bottle of Coke . . .
to re-evaluate old myths
that spangle heaven:
Taurus, Draco,
Perseus,
Boötes. . .
outdated in their Greek shining.
Quickly renamed,
they are reconfigured into modern shapes
—cluster by cluster—
Guitarus Major, Double Arches,
Empire State Building,
Bottle of Coke . . .
Each fall,
the firmament glitters like a new marquee,
a hit parade of celebrities
to correspond
with the season’s upcoming shows:
where Cepheus glittered—
the visage of an actress
shines;
Libra morphs into the body
of a reigning hunk;
the Pleiades burn all night—
divas in a female rock group.
Trained over centuries
to forget the past
entire populations suffer
from cultural
amnesia
catalyzed by constant change—
“This is NOW!”
a favorite bumper sticker shouts,
and
”Welcome to the Interactive Cosmos!”
Constellations rise and fall,
brief as ads
that flash across the blank screen
of heaven.
Computers work around the clock
to thread stars
into relevant patterns
while last year’s icons
fade
like the memory
Of someone’s face
before cosmetic surgery.
At last
the Committee votes on current choices,
having sifted
through a copious Printout
of Possible Skies:
Hands go up around the table
as they nod and smile—
with the stroke of a finger
the Zodiac is realigned
against the infinite blackness behind the stars.
