The brain hole is that place

That space

Where stories are born

And storylines are lost.

Where our imaginarium 

Is our planetarium 

For creativity and innovation.


It's dark and empty.

Bright and full.

Luminous in its nebulousness.


It's that place where ruminations

Begin, live and end.

It's where contemplations 

Recycle, recharge and compost.

It's where the threads 

Of thoughts

And ideas 

And opinions

And facts 

And information

Mulch into a mush.

It's where the halls of memory,

The files of remembrance,

The catalogs of our story



It's that space,

That place

That is infinite

In its nothingness


In its everythingness

It's whole and empty.



It's that realm where

Magnificent things are pulverized 

Into nothing

And that nothing is constructed

Into magnificent things.


It's our inner magician's hat

Where rabbits of chimerical design

Are pulled from.



It's that place where our inner scientist

Observes big bangs of sparks

Sparkling ideas 

Swirling into universes 

Of kaleidoscopic dreams.


It's that place where our inner artist

Crafts, creates and paints 

Masterpieces of/for bombastic display.


It's that place where

We play hide and seek with ourselves.

That place that carries our unbounded

Pandora's box.

That place where the ethereal is bound.

That place…

Oh, where is that place?

I’m sure it’s there,


Giving essence to my radiant shadow

Or perhaps it just slipped into 

The vacuum of itself.


I am the marionette 

For my brain hole’s grandiosity,


And mastery.

I am the shadow of its darkness.

I am the 3D imprint of 

It’s multi-dimensionality,


And trans-dimensionality.

I am it’s humble servant

Ninety-five percent of the time.


Gladly I play the part as it’s offspring

Flung forth like a potter’s clay

I am it’s work 

In progress…