The Wisdom Trust

I see pictures, and stories, and rumors of things; people, places, rivers on their way to nirvana through cities. The ocean. shrines and funerals, and death, and death, and anger, and love – love. Life, human; man; child; child as my child, as only a child knows to be. A child is all one knows to be as it is all I know to be when I see these things. And, when I do, I feel the taking of my elbow between an old thumb and sea-withered forefinger, and, jarred, I look to my side to see a man, face hidden by the beard of years, open his mouth and swallow my ear and roll a low wind into me that bursts, frightens, immolates, and disorients. It runs past my cochlea and brain to the front of my eyes and into my stomach and I hear in a vibrating language “do you understand?” I look through my own welled eyes at the body, back, breast and thigh of the world, and taking its feet to my forehead reply “no, but the knowledge that questions only lead to questions does not keep me from asking.”