Stars are fully conscious beings.
They know what they are,
they know what they do.
They have lives, beginning
and ending. They have work
to do. They have intellect
beyond our ken, emotions
vast and mighty.
Stars know what’s in their heart,
understand full well
how atomic nuclei fuse
to give them life,
control their power
with other stars, and with the mighty hosts
in the orchestra of cosmos,
stars love. Stars love. Stars love.
Stars sing, growl, howl, scream
adore, implore, quake, mistake,
correct, deflect, in counterpoint
composed by stars’ mighty fathers and mothers,
grandfathers and grandmothers, substance
of eternal generations going all the way back
to the beginning of this time, this time
which stretches long and rejoins itself
where stars truly begin. And end.
Stars go crazy and explode, and shed
their substance in stellar
pregnancy and regeneration,
of doom and resurrection.
It is difficult for humans to conceive
the roaring inferno of love
out of which stars make their lives,
how the insides of stars determine
the outsides of stars, and how
at the very center of a star,
a single particle is always igniting,
igniting, igniting, that lightning
is to a star what a heartbeat
is to a man,
the most fundamental element
of existence, burning burning hot,
hot so hot beyond comprehending,
a melting love, a fusing love,
a uniting love, an orgasmic love
tied to everything in deep converse
merged with all in a universe
where voices cross the void
where void disappears into
inexplicable and infinitely tiny
spaces, like spaces inside our bodies
where atoms combine, where molecules
caress and form other lives.
Stars know what they are.
Stars are alive and individual,
quirky with personality,
often pulsing and drawing
gravity blood, gas and heat,
combining with other stars
combining and mating with other
stars and forming unions of
in order to serve the Master of Stars.
Even rogue stars, sad brown old stars,
invisible stars, fresh newborn stars
understand why they came to be
what they are
in the very first place.