So you want to be a certified Machu Picchu Shaman?
You’re already there. You danced the twelve constellations
as you tumbled through the amniotic intergalactic womb.
You were baptized in the sweat lodge of the birth canal,
microbiome bubbling with talismans.
Each morning in your crib, as a grasshopper, serpent, peacock, frog,
you performed the total phylogenic sequence of asanas.
You embodied eons, your wrists and fingers playing Buddhic mudras,
throat a bone rattle, belly a drum, lips gurgling incantations to invoke
your animal familiars, a spaniel, a tabby cat, a parakeet named Sanchez.
Your burbles and farts were tantric bija mantras filled with God’s Word:
"Hum!" "Phwat!" "Hri!" "Gah!" Creation through baby talk.
Your epithelium the robe of the Deer Priest, veiling mysteries:
Wingéd jaguars in the rain forest of your cerebellum.
Hidden in the leaves of your medulla, a sepulcher containing
medicine bundle, the amygdala. And in the ancient well
of your pineal gland, a turquoise ayahuaska toad who spat
crystal wisdom to your forehead, star-juice down your backbone.
Distant suns fell through the soft spot in your skull like rebel angels.
The fiery polypeptide tendrils in your solar plexus reached beyond
your edgeless flesh; neurons rooted through your naked toes,
entwined with mycelium; your diaphragm a lyre of gut strings
resonant with hummingbird thunder; dust, fire, water, air, offerings
to Viracocha through the burning sage of your original amazement.
Shaman: "one who sees in the dark." The stars are only beautiful
because the night around them is so deep. Even now
you are that child, beholding the full moon of beauty that rises
in an opal sky between your eyebrows. Your senses do not receive
the world, but suffuse it. Nostrils, ears, eyes, tongue
irradiate creation with a Self again. Take, no, receive this breath.
And even now you might perambulate these terrible holy flowers,
the sacrum, navel, throat and crown, following a winding way
with the pilgrim goddess, who walks with you through Eden again
in the cool of the evening, placing the lost rib back in your side,
where it blossoms.