SIMPSONS HOROSCOPE

Around me the icons circle.
The faces, reproduced endlessly,
taking the spaces once reserved 
for such notions as Polaris. 
Maggie is rising, and Mars is in Lisa - 
the warbringer tempered by feminine ire
or the great surge of rage for the cause 
you find just, depending on who you ask.

I am at tarot. The teller draws Krusty.
I feel the fear. Am I bound to be locked
in business of show? Images, endless.
The teller soon calms me. "Notice how Homer
is latent in Krusty. They have the same head."
She places the card at the top of the spread.
But if she drew Bart there'd still be no end
to the family's stasis. Plotlines repeating.
The powerplant's glow outshines the fixed stars.

In my 31st season I stand before Homer.
Blind, endless. His words could destroy me.
I solemnly offer a donut with sprinkles -
vibrant and coloured, just like the icons -
ground by his molars down into dust.
He groans assent. Today I am spared,
and hurry along. I glimpse his four fingers,
and give silent thanks for my withered hands.