every tree of the chautauqua gorge
has naked birds sitting on branches.
birds of a thousand different shapes
and sizes. each with their own song.
beautiful voices and ugly voices.
humble songs of a coming winter,
victorious war songs over the
rain fills its belly. waterfalls maintain
a constant rumble of serenity
through the day and night. rainbows
waltz in the pale mist of the falls. a
quiet riot of butterfly wings are the
cause for the cool summer breezes.
this place has never been cursed, has
never lost its grace. the spirits have
never been frightened. a faraway
symphony is the breathing of a
sleeping milky way. soon she will
open her eyes and smile. a full moon
has been caring for her as she
twisted in a picasso vision of god. a
connoisseur of dark skies exploding in
there is no existence beyond the
walls of this canyon. at the horizon
all things cease. this is not an
exaggeration of heaven. this is the
province of lumbini. run-away slaves
hid here from their bounty hunters.
spiritual treasures are buried
beneath the shale.
never is a kiss contagious. this must
be what poetry is, written by
flamboyant poets. the year of their
birth and death eroded away from
their stones, like the appalachians. no
one will ever die here. long after the
death rattle is silent life continues like
madness brought me here. there was
no main street to follow, no road
signs pointing me in the right
direction. a fever grew ferocious in
my brain. my clanging speech gave
insight to my disorder. the modern
world was my impediment.
like the birds i have removed my
feathers. in my naked splendor i sing
songs in different tongues. there are
no angelic verses of tomorrow, or of
yesterday. their era never existed.
no longer do i practice the art of
deliberation with myself. beautiful,
natural and bold, i swim only in my