Incantations of White Noise

The theatre of the broken world; human faces like toys --- on fire,

silhouetted by history,

a swirl of heliotropic dream states.  On the edge of the road,

the incantation of white noise charges the flesh 

with a fire of belief.  The lost dogs arrive, their eyes deepening with 

blueness of Marlon Brando's moment of doubt, 

there where the Sky meets the Sidewalk, and the stoplights are reminders

of the System inside the System, 

a series of machine languages whose computations lift history 

outside of itself in patterns and rhythms beyond any single person's

comprehension.

Waiting. A crushed bone, disintegrating in the grass at where the Toys

are marching into the Dawn, 

their scent an exotic wisdom of fearlessness, their eyelids stitched open

by some strange attractor at the end of time, an inevitable event 

that the future cannot contain,

that spills back through the Starlight like wine spilling through the emptiness

of a human brain,

combination locks of memory and imagination 

erupting in a fireworks of the Ordinary World.  A strange flag rising 

through the sky,

as if it was a cloud, the tongue of a Djinni, unfurling it's 

secret life in billowing embers of some ancient covenant,

symbolic of some unfinished Idea, another inexplicable event,

lost in the past,

like a memory born in some forest canopy when the rainbow

ignites in the eyes of a Parrot,

lifting into a nest of Thunders.