I was told that Sagittarius men are hoes, but isn’t astrology astronomy’s ho? Either way, why not be a thot for the stars? If I call them God, or ask the right questions, they pay me in light years: Babylonian theologians sliced the sky pie into twelve, disregarded Ophiuchus—they already had a lunar calendar, twelve months, and didn’t care or dare to do the math. By the way, there is precession, earth turns out. Apparently, I’m Scorpio, not Sagittarius. Ask Siri or Alexa, they’ll tell you that most people have fucked-up personalities. Our future’s fucked too. The polar caps melt exponentially as decreasing ice reflects increasing rays. Earth is self-absorbed. The frozen underground thaws, and methane, with ten times the greenhouse effect of carbon dioxide, escapes through muddy cracks of sedimentary memory. Post-industrialization, global temperatures have risen the pie by one degree Celsius.  People born in the 1960’s and 70’s basked in a point five degree rise over their lifetime, unable to constellate beyond the developing cloud. Ultimately, they had othering work to do. The stars can save us from second-hand imagination, bullshit rain, rote memorization. All the stars are connected, billions of identities take shape. Tonight, I am Megachirella, fossilized mother of lizards and snakes, awoken stone, content*

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*(adj.) in a state of peaceful happiness. (noun) the substance or material dealt with in a speech, literary work, etc., as distinct from its form or style.