They

were sitting on the ledge of a building
talking about the pursuit of happiness,
how every human action is motivated
by self-love and trying to reconcile
morality with a mechanistic view
of a universe, everywhere ruled
and determined by inflexible laws
the talk went on for some time
they would interject a few modern expressions
to avoid falling into a complete anachronistic conversation
reminiscent of the 18th century philosophes
then the one on the right said,
– What if we jump?
– there’d be a fall
– yeah, and then what?
– who knows
– do you think there’s consciousness after death?
– as much as you can find in the drunk man’s sleep
– should we jump? what stops us from finding out?
– fear, our loved ones, the desire to seek new experiences and store them in the insatiable coffins of memory. But mostly fear.
– if you could have anything in the world before you die, what would it be?
– another lifetime to figure that out
– do you often think of death?
– on rare special occasions, like funerals and that kind of thing
– do you find any consolation in the thought of death?
– yeah in the thought that death dissolves all suffering with the same intensity as life withheld happiness from the individual
– I’m going to jump
– I’ll take the stairs

He did not jump but was he really considering it? They decided to go home. As they walked together over the bridge they both noticed the sea was restless that day.

 

21st_century_poetry_blog

21st century Poetry

contemplative light

heavy_light

 

Sits against a white wall.
Looks at the window, stares in fact.
Silence is corporeal. Like a slow vapor
gliding through the room. Like a heavy
light falling to the floor and hardening
into a luminous crust. I watch him
think a thought as if it were the
last thought to ever enter his mind.
This is not real, he thinks.
This is not real, he thinks again.
A flutter of figments,
a crossroads for pigments.
This is not real.
Who could have foreseen him
washing his hands in those streams
of thick light. Who could have
foreseen him tying silence to
the weight of a spiral.
This is not real,
he repeats for a fourth time.
Sitting against a white wall.
Like an old portrait, immobile
while staring at the window.
He has become conscious
of the weightlessness of time.

 

 

 

Contemporary Poetry

the inner life of the newer man

Key to Wisdom

It keeps me warm
threads and threads
a wonderful composition
to keep me warm;
I bought it and now it keeps me warm
it has fortified my skin,
I am a modern bear.

I walk with my coat
the streets are windy
but the coat hangs on
it falls naturally on my shoulders,
I am its underlying foundation,
therefore I must exist under it.

I am hungry
contractions and blurring agonies,
I am okay
but I must touch food soon,
then swallow it
and then it becomes me
I become it:
we must both exist at some point.

The bicycle has wheels
they roll on a surface,
a hard one,
I am fast; to be fast
there is weight, force
I am a force in motion.

I see the bakery
full of smells and heat
many folk are in there
bread is being sold,
I have some money:
I must be at the right place.

I park my bicycle,
rationally, I am locking it
removing the key from the lock
the bike sways and wants to fall,
I catch it because it should not fall;
they are not supposed to fall –
a car glides behind me –
why would we let bikes fall to the ground,
what would happen, who would I become
if I had permitted this bike to fall;
what kind of man would I have become.

Mouth is watery
mushy croissant in my savory mouth
this pulp goes down my throat,
it falls,
this is allowed fall.

I leave the bike –
cannot deal with questions right now –
walking is natural, effortless
step, step, step, step, step, step
kind of percussion,
I must be an artist.

I went astray,
is this the north of the south
or the west of the east,
this place is relative to something
I know that much.

They are talking about shoes
shoes are valuable
they are like hard feet for hard surfaces,
these girls use their hands when they speak:
hands must also be part of language.

I must return, somehow
because if I remain lost too long
I might not be me anymore;
with so many new sights
I might disappear in these perceptions.

TO DOWNTOWN,
there it is, an arrow
pointing to my universe;
back there I can be caressed again
by the same old things I know:
we exist side by side.

Step, step, step, step
this is my home, my street, my block
my mailbox has a name
the floors have numbers
the door has a lock and I possess its key
and I pretty certain that I keep track
of who I really am.

Self-knowledge

 

Nihilistic Poetry Blog