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.



It has taken an excruciating amount of time for me
to determine we have been asking the wrong questions.
More than laughter frees the soul of those who dare
to cease altogether (and to ask any questions whatsoever
remains the vanguard of the child).

We do not attain wisdom from having our questions answered; no.
From having our questions answered we gain knowledge.
Neither may wisdom be gained from amassing all knowledge.
A state of wisdom blossoms in the waters of silence.
The reason we must stop asking: apparently the stars are talking.

Ambient noise produced from SETI alone blots out their message.
Communication with the alien occurs on a personal level.
When we turn our ears away from the stars and begin listening
to anybody on Earth we grant ourselves the dignity of emissaries.
For it remains we today who may only hear their echoing song.

This has been a public service announcement interrupting a frenzy.
Feel free to return to the scheduled stethoscoping of a dead heart.
Whatever you do try not to grow up and out of your child's fantasy  
on account of me. After all, I'm only confessing what I myself heard
in my back yard late at night many times while listening to the stars.