I bet Schrondinger’s cat
is jet black as black
as Hawking’s black holes
holding information back.

I once told my daughter, Megan,
that her socks had been to church
because they were holy. ( sic )

Holy-Moly, she told Dorothy,
her Montessori teacher,
who scolded me on parent’s day
for playing such a lame joke
on a three-year-old.

Little did I realize
how really holey things are.
It’s swiss cheese, stretched and
squeezed.

Nobody really knows how many holes
there really are–like counting the stars.

inside out, upside down,
accordian folded, an oragmi marvel
on such a scale
what I thought I knew
has flown the coop.

Fireworks in cloud-chambers
decaying signs of hidden meanings
there’s more we don’t know than anyone thought.
not just failing memory and cataracts.

Dark matter has been propping up
what we thought were holes.

Not only turtles all the way down
they’re dancing the Mandebot!

Worlds swirling within worlds.
order and chaos hinging only on
what part of the wave you’ve caught.

There is no Design.
whether you are tossed onto the rocks
or swept out by the tide
is only a matter of luck.

No justice nor injustice. Power and rank
merely relative positions on the board.

Or, to say it another way,
pure chance or randomness is
a design choice with a unique feature
it does not require a decision maker.

Absolving one and all, the need for design,
a designer, a top dog, any high-minded intentions
or purpose(s). Any guarantees
or adult responsibilities.

Rest assured, says the tour guide.
we are still ocean bound
destined to arrive in that deep dark place
where life glows in the dark
and memories remix.