Simplicity

poem_pablo_saborio_2017

 

There is in
my shadow a rock
that seems to be a rose.
This is,
to be brief,
the reality of an appearance.
The field of mist: life.
In it, a hard substance
that imitates the softness of love.
I am spectator and hungry stage.
Everything is busy.
As I am.
Trying, I am trying to be a place
for things to dwell inside me.
I only see the there.
Otherwise to taste nothing
and find it so sweet.
I can look at you, you’re it
that piece of motion that
clings to change.
So am I, besides anything essential.
Here is in that one shadow
a tiny stone we can taste.
Yes, it is really a cloud
without hope of being
like a flower above the sea.

 

 

existence as fiction

existence_as_fiction

Our existence is an exercise in fiction.
And it’s through a perversion of this art
that fiction becomes simulation of reality,
thus problematic.

The task is to comprehend
the problem without attempting
to provide a solution for it.

The greatest actors convey
an understanding of the problem
and are applauded as heroic
because they continue thriving
in contradiction with the unsolvable
(fictitiously real) problem.

This is theater of the mind
and valiant acts have been written
with the futility of blood.

The tragic hero’s only
certainty is his ineffective success
and our only consolation is his
acceptance of suffering.

This is our pathos.
The tragic man makes the problem
his only audience.

He must feign suffering until its pain
becomes as real as the simulation of the problem.

He then says that the salvation is unattainable,
that freedom is nothing more than
the purest state of fiction.

And in the irony of his language, he’s dead right.

 

Contemporary Poetry

Pose for me

body_despair_sketch

 

Take off your clothes.
Peel off every last layer.
Squat, further down.
Place your left arm over your left knee. There.
Bend your upper body to the right. Just there.
Right foot a tad over to the right. Lean forward
the other arm straight down touching
the coldness of the earth. Don’t look
at me, look down as if something
great and heavy was pushing you down
restraining your mobility, locking you
with the awkward chain of the body itself.
Untighten your abdomen. Relax the brow,
look defiant as if you’ve been angry
for years, but tired and nearing hopelessness,
like an irrational animal that’s exhausted
from growling in its cage.
There, let your member hang. Let the
pain of the bones and joints led
to convulsions, feel the crush and the pendulum.
Begin to accept this position as your end,
as your skin’s predestination.
There, that’s it. It will be over soon.
I almost got it.

It will be over …. soon.

 

Contemporary Poetry

prelude to a philosophy of meaninglessness

philosophy_of_silence

I want to write
clear and distinct ideas
expressing how life
is a short sojourn
in an unclear and
indistinct domain

that my philosophy
become the instant
when words ricochet off
the build of reality

to expose the futility
of the understanding
and dilate the aperture
through which silence
sinks

I want to make sure
that the veracity
of my principles
is unverifiable

that the meaning
of my verse
emerges as
a blur of music

I want to leave
the cloud of phenomena
to become a single
dab of mist
throbbing in the
chaotic extent.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

nuance of sense

edge_of_creation

It was in 2013
when I started
dancing –
in the moral sense
of the word.

It was this
year when in
my hole, still
timeworn with despair
that I laughed –
in the philosophical
sense of the word.

It was under
a pale circle
in the sky
that I shouted:
‘more, more!’ –
in the maternal
sense of the word.

It was in
momentary empty
flight when I shot
over the aching nothing
to touch the inchoate
rim of creation –
in the real
sense of the word.

 

 

Contemporary Poetry