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.



From the Outermost Dark, as we focus our attention on the matter at hand, the compound matter focuses on our land, its gaze from a different spectrum than our own, passing unnoticed at the molecular zone, as our greater telescopic view into the dark beyond the Kuiper belt gradually illuminates and clarifies the blackness awaiting in the Scattered Disc, imagine what we may find even further beyond at the great spinning walls of calcified and spent former planets flung from the heart of the Sun, having reached the outermost interpenetrating blades of whirling stones weaving a spacious webwork in holographic precision in a buzzing cloud about our star, a cosmic blender preventing any entrance or exit from our system, if you will; and if you won't, that's all very well and blunt yet it misses the point of exercising our imagination to fabricate alternative explanations for the unknown however unlikely they may be, consider it the poetry of the mind you may find right at hand, if only your body could accept your brain's command, so if it whispers from the shadows in the darkness of your room, when the sky outside your window is starless and bible black, when we realize the aim of the search for alien life may be directed in the obverse direction than it should, you begin to understand our own bodies are the worlds being successfully explored by the host of transient microbes interacting within our living guts, so take a deep breath and hold your horses and hats because the storm's brewing up the mother-lode of a terrific dose of climactic retaliation against our bothersome infestation, that has grown intolerable because we as a nation or a people among countries on a world whose sentient populace remains bent on reproduction at a rate which cannot intercept the machine of industry upon which our breeding both relies upon and has been made possible, remain a perpetuating cycle having followed the generating rhythms still pulsing from bygone epochs in our own history and that of those who came before us here on this very same planet, and if we don't gather together our best minds and able people to seize the reins of the day for even one moment, our own transfigurations will have passed us along the way and the quiet murmuring of our collective memory will float by in silence like soft pixilated clouds containing the roiling formations of the briefest suggestion of faces in grimace and grind, I think you will find that by then we'll have been long gone without a trace having left behind just a curious and scabrous terrain with odd formations jutting in scattered groups of constantly buried decay under the same exact wind that's been blowing through our lives as if we weren't even here for the past endless succession of centuries in the first place.