Where Wisdom Slinks

If wisdom were a crystal ball the crystal would be cracked.

The medium who’d peer into its sinuous refractions, whom

you’d hear attempt to speak the mysteries that lay in its

divided parts, would know enough not to be rough. Encroaching

on a fault in violent geology requires a soft approach. To kick it

would be wicked. Caressing it was best. You never knew

what molten brew might be more ready to construe its chaos

upon you than you had bothered to imagine. We never think

we’ll die. We may, at levels where our mitochondria supply

the breathing secrets of existence, know that dying is a lie, but

do not count on that. Any hope too tightly held becomes a bat

that writhes and spasms – wriggles monstrously against your grip

to rip away. The medium is at a loss today. Wisdom couldn’t

give a toss about whatever you would like to have a bite of.

But oh! Don’t diagnose or explicate. Wisdom is a current

in a fractured body, lacerated by exacting laughter so disruptive

and delightful that it would be tasteless to the point of spiteful

to subject it to an exegesis. Sweet Jesus, don’t explain the joke.

You’ll make the cosmos choke. Parsing it eviscerates the wow.

And then its broken bits will coalesce into a killing danger

it would now be far from wise to beckon forth. But reckon with

assurance wisdom always slinks throughout its course along

an imperfection. With luck, one random day, down in your sinew

you will know because it’s in you that this is its predilection.

.