A Bookpuddle-shaped Cake...

Well, yes.
Today is my birthday.
"Aww geez, Cip. None of us knew. If you would have told us, we would have baked a cake! In the shape of a book, or a.... puddle, or something."
I know you would have, I know. But see, I didn't want to trouble you with all of that razamatazz.
As it ends up, my day could not have been more extremely normal. I worked almost 12 hours, and I am beat to shreds.
In many ways, it was rather horrid.
But you know what? Any day that we are alive and healthy, is a good day.
And so this day has been for me, a good day.
And now that I am officially nineteen, I can legally buy beer!
Everything's good!

Please forgive me for posting a fair bit of my own poetry lately, [but I am going to do it again, in minutes]... but I promise, after this one, I will put a leash on that dog, OK?
It's just that if someone were to ask me for a representative poem.... a poem that I consider to most reflect the totality of my life, thus far lived, I would ask them to read this thing, called Diameter.
Thing is, most people.... no... ALL people that have ever read it, have unanimously concluded that it is the wierdest piece I have ever written, and maybe it is. It's just that I myself could talk about what this poem means to me, for hours.
So, in a selfish way, it is a poem that I am sending to myself, after a long day at work.
And [I guess] just as selfishly, asking you to read it.
Funny thing is, last year, on this day, I did the same thing. Posted this poem, and I said, back then:
Maybe by next December I will have done something better, to displace this little thing as my own personal anthem.
I haven't.
It is still here.
I am a year older.
But this poem isn't.
All the best to you, and thank you for the bookpuddle-shaped cake.
It's the thought that counts.

Diameter

There exists a precise area on this planet
the exact length of a sputtering infant
where tiny lungs drew for the first time
air, and I was born.

Forty years later I seek its diametric opposite,
the furthest earthly point from that first breath.

Perhaps it falls upon the ocean.
I float there, and as I pass the spot
rest my hand on the black surface,
look up at the stars and imagine
my life a sword that splits the world in two.

Perhaps it is a terraced plot of dirt.
An aged farmer quietly tills his garden
while I kneel and grip the soil,
look up and try to impress upon him
the importance of this little row of beans.

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006
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