Each day feels like a birth,
New insights on old sights,
Yet the same pattern is
Renewed,
Another perspective on the reality that a game exists,
And I can play it, too
My body, staff and pouch are the instruments
And the song sung at the table bears semblance of vaginal canals,
Muffled sirens of light calling the unborn spirit in name,
Which calendar, marked in frosted stars,
dots the pink chamber of nascent constellations,
on maps remembered in dream state recollection?
The etchings of neo-cortex structure
fueled by chemical intake and gestated with time,
Half-baked spells in mind, made manifest, through passion,
Now pushing back the astrology of wombs towards new eyes, glass,
Days spent answering better 1 or 2,
Wishes spoken, regularly, becoming real enough for robes,
Sacred plant of sacrum parallel gifted and received,
Suggested by the attendees of cake town who,
Clapping the geometric air
and splitting atomic structure in metronomic celebration, wish:
Happy Birthday, you wizard—
Carry the candle of your Earth through all rebirths,
To illuminate the ancient art on the inward cave, created by you,
Until breath is cast once again…
11.16.17