Black Hole

This hole is black,

a new-discovered window

on the very beginning;

The Univ-Ur-se.

Radiation echoes hint at Sci-Fi's holy grail;

the anything's-possible, Hitler-as-humanitarian,

Schrodinger's-catachrestic multiverse.

All creation's patchwork is suddenly quilted,

or myriad inflationary pockets collapse,

turning lint into stars.

Branes threaded on a superstring necklace

collide like clackers,

each loud report echoing, bouncing,

into yet another beginning.

Shapes in a landscape move with lower energies;

one space is out-lawed by its contiguate neighbour.

Binary choices justify quantum theories

at every fork in the road that goes on forever.

Or, perhaps, the surface mimics the substance

and the holographic truth is that

we are no more than illuminated shadows.

The negrescent fear is that this window is in Blue Genes

and everything is simulated.

Is it the ultimate;

every possible mathematical variant

according to Physical Laws?

Or are the echoes coming out of the black

simply the sound of God laughing?