courage guides on knowledge not enough
known, not enough known,
but known enough,
to know

a guess is not a lie, unless you know,
empirically,
by way of out-perience,
trying out and failing in a miserable state
to wait as a wisher a while more,
"existing in a state of want, suffering, wretchedness, etc."

Bet me, cries my friend the gambler,
you may win, she cries,
you never know. Dare wait,
wait to be old
to know

the past will be found to have been right,
for what it was in history,
a discrimination, between Eutopian existence known
scientifical-ish as
knowable knowns unfalsifiable as
experience paid proper attention
to sense the edge
next time so we may
know failing to know the unknown
end of the whole matter,
thus we
make a science, form a knowing, leave a known,
a core known, fitted into
the discriminated class of knowns to
you, to take away into your place where
"two rocks nearly join", to hoard with all
previous knowns awaiting use in some reader some day.

Liberty taken,
"It's a smug poem, y'see."
I see it posted here.
Positioned to be seen if sought long enough,
all over hoary on the top,
the poet was old when I met him,
I have lines left linked to a younger him,
but the lines tie me to the old man
who spoke of critters and rocks
witnessed by a knower and sayer of enough.

I find good imaginable.
I find no reason good could ever form a war.
No reason has come to mind in some time,
I have forgotten when I knew
no reason ever could. War was never a good idea,
but
an idea and any may be can be fitted to nature
imagined by knowing witnesses imagining,

if prey thought as men think, I think,
this folly…
for it is me, thinking
as prey thinks,
and I know I am hunter, taker of life to maintain
my right unalienable.
I am of the class risen from the masses, I read.
I see things have been in part
known
all along. Joy of the fullest sort any morning contains,
is easier to find when sought early in a given day.
-- round it out, he said he learned, as a purveyor of news.
Tap, tap tap, I recall learning
Rivets are rounded with a ball peen hammer,
you know.
Pounded round the edge of the head,
rivets are rounded with a ball peen hammer,
and finisher work in a furniture mill,
where the upholstery was done with mastery staff,
journey men, wombed or un,
put art into their effortless
ability to peen a pretty as pi brass tack with
proper formed blemishes,
tucking folds in fabric formed formed formed…
of thread crossing thread in a pattern pre arranged
-listen, amused, feeling the walls of the maze
were never made of more than thought-knowns,
thoughts known as thought once by another
pouring lines in reasonable
networks fit to strain gnats from gnostic guessings now
twisted strands combed from silk
eggs
con structed
as instructed long long long time gone right,
threads through now from how how how and why
when
nothing was known, as was I, ignorant of now, so then
they all have been, as children of men,
touring the caverns where wisdom hides
lies so evil only adults are allowed to even imagine them,

so, rest a while, child. Mortality is a moment that proves
relativitiy is an iffy situation to imagine right
the first time.

"a smug poem"

Inspired by the reality of TV
being as eternal as electricity.
I listen
to Robert Frost,
knowing my voice dares not imagine
knowing how he remembered
old poems, by then, 1952,
flowing from under his hoary mane,

lines he lingered on 20 minutes,
40 years earlier or more,
I don't know, how long it had been, but it was
old poetry by then, 1952