All that you have and all you may yet own,
Can be stolen, lost, consumed or destroyed,
The state can tax it to oblivion,
Or outright confiscate it--some or all.

There's only one most precious thing you own,
Beyond the reach of corrupt governments,
That you can use and share but not use up,
And pays high, tax-free dividends for life.

Its value is undiluted by strife,
It thrives in markets of both bulls and bears,
It is inflation- and recession-proof,
Beyond the reach of world economies.

It is not stocks, or bonds, or precious jewels,
Nor is it currency of any kind,
It is invisible, intangible,
And may be held by princes and paupers.

The more you own, the more its value grows,
Though it can largely be obtained for free,
Once obtained it can be improved, reshared,
For a price, or at no cost, as you choose.

Its ownership is the only true wealth,
To which wise humans in life should aspire,
The wealth I write of is of course knowledge,
The only coin with which wisdom is bought.

A Gordian knot,
Our wonder-filled universe,
And we have no sword.

Hubristrology is the pseudo-science,
Created when the human mind,
Attempts to reduce the infinite complexity,
Of the universe to its understanding.

It can lead to absurd conclusions not unlike,
A blind man who has spent his life in the desert,
Attempting to deduce the form and function,
Of a great white shark by examining only the tip of its dorsal fin.

In our efforts to unravel the secrets of the universe,
Even the wisest among us is like an amoeba floating on a leaf,
Attempting to distill the infinite secrets of the cosmos,
By examining in minutest detail the fetid drop of pond water it inhabits.

Square pegs don't fit into round holes? Worry not.
Hubristrology to the rescue!
Find a peg of lesser diameter,
And it will fit just fine.

Deontology was the canary in the coal mine,
Whose death and replacement by teleology,
Opened the gates,
To the four horsemen of the apocalypse.

Coding will set you free,
Repair, rework, renew, reinvent ruinous reality,
Into a multiverse where reason reigns and creativity flourishes.

Excise the tired, mundane, mind-numbing predictability of the real,
Transform it into a rebooted reality that erases every flaw,
Expiates original sin and finally frees humanity from its anchor to clay.

Soar on the winds of possibility to heights undreamed of,
With wings not of feathers and wax impervious to the sun,
Then cut the cord of existence and live forever in a perfect world.

We alone in the universe?
Inconceivable! Absurd! Illogical!
So why the silence?

We’ve been screeching “We’re here!”
For the better part of a century,
Sending our best and worst broadcasts,
(Mostly the latter) that have now traveled,
Nearly 100 light years in the Milky Way.

A-bombs and H-bombs also send out clear signals.

They know we’re here.
So why the silence?
Could it be they did respond and are here?
Perhaps.

But two other options are likelier, I think.
One, that they saw, heard, examined our broadcasts,
And did as we might if we discovered,
An island populated by billions of rabid baboons.
Unpleasant. Dangerous. Irrelevant.

Another possibility is that they cannot distinguish,
Our primitive signals from the general background noise,
And natural radio emissions of a static-filled universe,
Any more than we could hear the most ardent efforts,
Of a paramecium vigorously thrashing its cilia,
In an effort to let its existence be known to the universe.

No, we are not alone.

We can’t possibly be.

We are just not worthy of acknowledgement,
Or perhaps of notice.

Worse yet, we might be like a cancer cell,
Attempting to communicate with the body it inhabits.
Whether it succeeds through its efforts,
Or is discovered by independent means,
Is there any question as to its likely fate?

I hereby resolve,
To make no resolution,
For the coming year.

Take days as they come,
Embrace opportunities,
Brighten other lives.

Make no promises,
But do what you can each day,
To walk in the light.

Shine the light of truth,
Where darkness slithers freely,
That all may see clear.

See things as they are,
Not as sophists would paint them,
Give help when you can.

Let your purpose be,
Leaving something of value,
When your journey's done.