Cacophany

broken lines

of peppery milk

threaten to break the glass

chaos

I don't know

the tv doesn't know

no form

a peek inside

the mind of a zombie

the broken antennas

of sad muttering souls

the broken hum

of a burning ocean

of divine debris

[[[fractured collisions of spiritual waves]]]

the witness hopes

it isn't forever

and like a happy ending

in the signal of a sitcom,

I know I can change the channel.

And then we know.

A psychic could persuade me,

not by finding shapes in tea,

but by finding history's heroes

buried in this hard fuzz,

and ennerving them.

I suspect that Caesar's in there,

being canceled out by Jesus,

which is why the message seems null,

but they both knew they could win,

like I know

I can change the channel.