On Knowing Nothing

The Slow as Molasses Press
I know nothing of how anything works I do not understand motion Motion is a mystery What makes things go is not on my dance card I do not know
I know nothing of how anything is Even of love by which I live and breathe It is a mystery

What all this says to me is nothing but this That I do not know That knowledge itself is a presumption that should produce skads of laughter hidden for the sake of being recondite
Being recondite now that is something that I know It is the art of getting by when someone does not know and thinks he does Except that I get by not knowing anything at all