Astronauts on broadcast

Have you ever asked them
where they were
when the moon gained its first human-footed zit?
The wonder,
the same wander of seeing the movies
of spaceships
aliens
cameras zooming
lazy lights, many colors
floating
in the tunes of a trumpet.

Once, you might have;
the wonder and pride
of that cousin
who left to live in another country
the anguish of a friend´s
shortlived return
from his overseas doctorate
-all paid by his parents!-
their photos their emails


and you scurry around
around crumbles of rejection letters
beetling piles of efforts
around in the crevices of the world

arthropods believe their homeclaimed
nest, claimed to their sad little apppendages
are their world, and so they live in,

ought to think of a never ending task in an hellenic hell
an forever unpaid effort
hard face, hard efforts
ample anting, juggling a grain sand
on all your hands

no time to see those butterflies
blessed from pupation
go and soar above satellites
no time for bitterness
gnawed in your teethless mandibles
-sky does not exist,
your hardback will not let you
rise your head above your routine

a routine below the wide adventurous sky
far below the unschedled epicness
of your cartoons and movies
when time was just
someowhere on the corner of your eyes

not a doom hurled at your face amidst flames
from above, like a screaming telescope flick´s cliche.