Dear Freddy, happy birthday, you are not one moment old!
Today the laws of nature break themselves laughing.
Your behavior is totally unacceptable, but You are perfect.
May the blue sky fill every synapse in your squirmy brain.
Sing this poem til the hummingbirds return.
Who’s the old magician gazing up at you
from the well of the unborn, mumbling zeros
with no 1 before them?
How do you both enjoy the same fresh fruit
on an ancient tree, the ripening
of Now?
It took the cardamom seed ten thousand years to attain
supreme emptiness, but you got it in your first inhalation.
Distant galaxies fall through the soft spot in your skull
like rebel angels.
May you ever return to the font of howling
in your Winter body, where shivering wounded wolves
curl up to heal in blood-stained
snow.
May you ever smell April melting in their fur.
That is how near your heart must ever tremble
to the heart of the animal.
And may the terrible hunter, Time, never come here.
Slice the lips of the persimmon void,
spill luscious seeds of poetry with no creator.
The nectar of your foolishness ferments into wisdom.
How does it happen, Freddy?
You must have been playing with your breath again.
You must have been secretly touching the name
of the Goddess under your breastbone.
You are hopelessly disobedient, but that is why I love you.
When I wrote my commandments on stone,
you became the stone, pulsing
softly,
exuding seven planets and a moon.
I am You, but never reveal the secret.
Just mutter the runes and call
them poems.
Fill viridescent darkness with worlds of pearl,
like the sweat of sweetness on a plum.
Tell how you crush the hollow places into juice.
How amethysts and emeralds fall,
jagged and burning from your eyes,
reflecting the starlight that has not arrived.
But don't say too much, Freddy. Just tell
whether it's all yearning, or gratitude.
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