Meditation Upon Philosophy

 I’m working on a philosophical masterpiece,

My grand vision, for which I may or may not be remembered.

It will not appear, however,

In a stack of boring, pedantic volumes

Compiled in the halls and classrooms of some stuffy university.

It won’t live and die covered in dust

In the back of some library’s collection of obscure works.

It will be written in tears

In the hearts of beautiful women.

The cardinals and linnets and wolves will guide my hand

To the opera of the forest.

My book will be composed on the dirt roads

In the most remote corners of the globe

In laughter, in sweat

In cries of agony, desperate pleas for mercy.

My ideas will live on with my brothers and sisters

And children, should they be themselves a chapter.

Under the stars, in loneliness,

In the passion of a lover,

In the coo of a newborn fawn

And roars of the stormy midnight

My philosophy will let itself be heard.

***

(Minneapolis, MN -- February, 2018)

I love philosophy. I'm a huge philosophy nerd, and I even have a BA in philosophy. However, the thought of being an academic philosopher and spending my life analyzing minor details of other people's theories bores me. I'd rather put my ideas into poems and stories and to also let my life itself be an expression of my ever-changing thoughts on philosophy.

Simple Pleasures

Tie me up.
Tear my shirt.
Make me bleed.
Call me a piece of shit.
Use my body. 
Give nothing in return.
Put your hands on my throat,
Squeeze until all this begins to fade.
Smear your scarlet lipstick on my face.
Mess up my hair. Rip it out.
Squeeze my thighs.
Bite my ear lobes.
Treat me like your toy.
Reduce me.
Strip away the painful burden of humanity
If only for a night.

***

(Minneapolis, MN -- February, 2018)

Sometimes you just need the simple things in life to drag yourself out of a rut. I'm not gonna lie, early 2018 was a rough time for me.

Lost Illusions

 Steadily, I ride down the Nile

as Cupid's delight glistens in the air around me,

littering the river surrounding my gilded vessel

with sweet, floral splendor.

 

The mirages come and go,

but there seems to be no horizon

in the realm of mighty Saturn.

 

The mirth of young maidens,

their songs, their laughter, their lyres,

the silky feel of their embrace,

and the scent of their perfumed necks

endlessly fill my pages with inspired verse.

 

While their delicate harmony

persuades my sails towards a tranquil dusk,

I spot a sullen figure upon the bank:

aged, hunched, half-starved,

certainly, a poet by his despondent gaze.

 

And when his darkened eyes meet with mine,

stricken by their haunting familiarity,

I am overcome by the fading of my own existence.

***

(Minneapolis, MN -- February, 2018)

This is another poem inspired by a famous painting. In this case, that painting is Lost Illusions by Charles Gleyre  (1865). This painting depicts an old poet sitting on the shore as he watches a boat with people that represent all of his pleasures as a young man that is sailing off into the sunset. This poem is meant to flip the perspective a bit. I was 25 when I wrote this, so I was very much still in that boat full of pleasures, thinking about a time when I'll look back on this part of my life. 

Landscape with the Fall of Icarus

 The plowman works his land,

Planting tomorrows in his dull, tan soil.

A shepherd, lost in the incoming storm,

Lets his flock graze along the emerald Aegean

Among the meager trees braving the rocky shores.

 

Ships cruise slowly in the peaceful air

Towards the old town:

Bankers, thieves, carpenters, tradesmen

All going about their lives.

The ship-hands are focused on the winds and the coast,

Not a thought of the shadow overhead.

 

A solitary fisherman looks for his first catch of the day,

As the hawk awaits an easy meal.

The waters lay smooth like mossy stained-glass

Without the slightest disturbance in their calm.

 

Birds' cries, bleating sheep, the captain's hoarse commands

Echoing throughout the mountains on the horizon

Ring like a symphony of the tranquil day.

There is no cruel laughter, no harsh judgements,

No mocking gossip from the old women in the village

 

As the cries and the splash

Of the brave, ambitious failure

Go unheard and unnoticed.

***

(Minneapolis, MN -- January, 2018)

This poem is inspired by a painting by the same name from roughly the year 1560 by Pieter Bruegel the Elder. The painting depicts pretty much the same thing as the poem. What stands out to me, though, is the contrast between the way we inflate our own successes and failures, inflating our ego and fear along with them, when in reality, everyone is too busy with their own lives to pay too much attention. To some, this may be depressing, but to me this is a call to chase my dreams without worrying what people will think if I crash and burn. 

Feast

 Slowly smoke my flesh:

shoulders, chest, ribs,

rump. Once the meat is tender,

I bet it'll taste great

with any dry rub or sauce.

 

I've treated it well.

a family of four could live

off of me for at least a week.

I would keep them alive, save them with my

 

sacrifice. They'd have a twinge of guilt,

sure, as they salivated

over the scent of my supple flesh

slowly charring over the flame, locking in the juices.

But they'd enjoy it, they'd survive,

and I'd finally feel like my life meant something.

***

(Minneapolis, MN -- January, 2018)

Is this poem exploring the exploitation of the worker's body in corrupt, capitalist societies, or did I just have too much to drink one night and start wondering what my thigh meat would taste like? It's up to the reader's own interpretation.