Song of Silence


The flesh recedes into the synapse whose current flowers into mad genius with a silent touch
while wild orphans dance in tenements whose rooms are absent of electricity.
The ghosts of the tenements sing the song of silence which expands in the eardrums of gray New York and still can be heard above the hum of the great pine ball machine of Time Square
then dies in rotting wisdom teeth
the organic museums of words.
The eye is the witness to visions that do not matter.
When the nerves nights roll in then we'll know that the miracles and songs of street profits merge with notes,
reverb,
and amp's static
then recedes into the cleft of the mind.
Fear becomes the new energy source in the politics of words and images.
And the specters of all generations vanish into the eye of the storm
With their young revolutionary hearts
And our lungs burn as we breathe in the winter winds of their passing
The devil smiles on this strange highway.

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