Triangle Theories

For an old friend with a beautiful mind

Foggy figures come into being, curl, unwind. 
Short-lived self-symmetries, strange and beautiful somethings, 
Hints of genius, half-drawn lines of thought. 
They trace their way back to the space between your lips.

There you hold a fire.

Breath fills your chest with music, with heat, with storm clouds.
Fills your field of vision with impressions of the sacred,
Fills your brain with inkblots.

There's smoke on the screen.
You zoom in to examine each pixel.
You sit back and take in all the noise.

Static.

The voice of Jesus Christ on the radio,
The voice of Alex Jones in the radiator.