Generative Poetry

My mind's eye. My third. Wait, you mean my forehead?

Water cascading down the falls like a brick thrown from the roof of your house. It was this kind of murky green up top, and this flowing puff of clouds made by water down towards the bottom. And even the froth seem to transcend from liquid state, as this net above the creek's surface. Making it's arms wrap tight around the beauty of water. In the shady spots were speckles of misty rainy flaky droplets, soaking up my sneakers, and warming up my heart.

I sat and stared at this waterfall for what seemed like an hour, just sitting there, breathing it in. Loving it in. And you know, as I'm sitting there seeing this glow, watching this flow, feeling this strong blow of physical and emotional uplifting; i started to hear something too. I always heard that the sound of moving water has a message. That if you focus on the harmonies, you'll hear what you've been longing for. Like the fucking Cry of Shambalah, this melodious humanoid type reverberation through the bowls of Mother Nature and all her choirs.

And now I'm writing it down, trying to play it out. She must have been playing a 32 string with one darbuka and another ancient domback. Instruments I'll never find. But when i get back there, I want to learn the words, the notes, the pitches. When I get back there Momma, I'm planning on singing along with you. That fucking Cry of Shambalah, baby. Opening the gates for the dakini in modest return and ever flowing respect. Just like the waterfall, ever flowing respect.