I know is ever more than barely a fraction of the world. My life, my
knowing is but a single frame in the production of the universe.
of a man with a storyless name on his wrist and his lips sealed.
I will never know him, only of him, because they say names
say nothing for their owners, but only for whomever chose them.
of a friend I will never know because I know
I know nothing more than a third of a person whose remainder is fragments
of my own memories; I know only a version of a human I can never know
I know of a Korea 30 years too old, but I do not know Korea
because nothing crosses that 6,690 mile gap except my black hair.
I know I can know fully: I know love only to the extent of warmth,
fear only to the extent of disturb; hunger only to the extent of desire.
that everyone has a choice about everything, but is it still a choice
if your diet consists of nothing but not-even-half truths and fear that
like a military vehicle sitting in ruins, its insides littered with
pages from Winnie-the-Pooh, now burnt and charred (fluttering like wings)
because it was kept in a pocket near the heart and exploded like
Somewhere, someone grows old without knowing 6 million people were killed
only 80 years ago. Stained glass memorials and blood-stained memories lead
to wet, stained cheeks just by someone who knew of; but they never knew;
truth beyond perception, because I know even the most basic concepts can be
undermined in seconds. In knowing we know nothing, chasing to know
something, each answer to each question is never
like how there is always the question of speak—knowing only of—or remain
ever silent; but what is the difference between silence and burning,
because both ways send the world in circles because history
so I will continue to know of, and of, and of, in the hopes that
the future will always know of, and of, and of—
because when we stop, 6 million people were never
because nothing everyone knows;
everyone knows nothing;
nothing everyone knows is