The table no time for its existentialism and absurd chair leaning against the table’s futile stance. I’m a pragmatic man so I have no use for knowing myself. The table studies its own nature by looking at its askew shade. Chair, somberly contemplating suicide because it wants to remove its painfully ingrown nails. Paradoxically they keep it alive, in form, in function. I have only one reality and the clarity of purpose. My furniture’s introspection is a trifling problem in my busy condition. The table has begun questioning things. It likes it when I leave Camus on its surface. I hear the creaky whisper, quoting: ‘thehumanwooden heart has a tiresome tendency to label as fate only what crushes it.’ Absurdly, the chair stares at the modernity of my modus operandi. I cannot be stopped to wonder. Progress is my mission. The table is a stranger to itself. The chair competes for my attention. I have appetites that the world cannot satisfy. Table is dissatisfied with its lucidity, through logic the chair has arrived at the conclusion that knowledge is a form of chaos. I’m a man of the world in spite of everything. In spite of poverty, war, injustice or my furniture’s uncertainty and their long episodes of incoherent silence.
fate
lack of control
or lack of will
who dares live and die by their own hand?
Damn! I LOVE the ‘ingrown nails’ — wicked sweet, POET. Wicked sweet word art.
Mr. Saborío,
With your blessing about a year and a half ago, I’ve recently completed a setting of your poem for three vocalists.
https://soundcloud.com/danielbayot/the-philosophy-of-wood
I do hope you feel the work does its source material justice.
Respectfully,
Daniel Bayot
A great work you have accomplished. Thank you.