A notebook bulletin board
tacked on when randomly bored
applied thoughts in a scribblebook
open for the world to look who passes by
so fast to see like a needle in a haystack we
safely stash those innermost secrets thought to be
at least you see languishing up and into pristine
blossoms for you to pick and sniff and hope
they don't make you sick.



The micro verse lives,  
an active universe.  
Constellations in the 
macro verse become 
the ghost in the machine
deep inside.   Just look.  

We are present here at
the furthest boundaries  
of an expansive domain.  

If one wishes to know what
lies beyond the farthest 
points of this reality, 
they must only wait 
to see what happens 
directly about them. 

Without a doubt, we are 
the extra terrestrials.

The cosmos warps 
about us, our refutation 
of nonexistence arrives 
along time's axis 
in the spiraling wake 
of wink out of stars.

Everything appears inside out 
which means that truth lies 
concealed within paradox.

Anywhere in space it is we 
who are the central point.

What we think of as outer 
space is really just time's 
mechanism, and what we 
believe to be the passage 
of time is only the space 
where life still fluorishes. 

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