Peace you’ll never find,
if your eyes are blind
to the naked now.
Just look––you’ll see how.
I looked for love
shared with strangers.
Didn’t find it.
In lips and fingertips,
still didn’t find it.

I stopped my search.
My heart broke.

Love found me.
Not written, but discovered––
words are hiding in your heart.
Hear your own eternity
as soon you provoke love’s song.

Forget past contact with the pen.
Listen to experience.
Involuntary melancholy
need no longer choke your voice.

Life takes your breath and gives it back:
inspiration means “breathe in!”
A heart like yours can hold the world,
waiting at your fingertips.
Enamorado de tus recuerdos,
soy indiferente hacia cada segundo frío
de tu ausencia, cada cana,
cada plazo sin cumplir.

Me baño en la dicha
de aquellos momentos cálidos,
rozando tu piel con mis labios.

In love with your memories,
I am indifferent to each cold second
of your absence, each greay hair,
each missed deadline.

I bathe in the bliss
of those warm moments,
brushing your skin with my lips.
Sinking into thinking
I see a fount of glee,
not a thread of separation
between “world” and “me.”
Inspired by the passage
"knowledge, like a sinking star, beyond the utmost bound of human thought"
Even a half-empty glass
is overflowing with fresh air

It’s time to love;
it’s time to live!
Quantum physics says electrons are lazy.
(They have no position, momentum, or spin
when there’s no-one looking in on them).
Take a second to catch your breath,
for that literally means:
the world is a weird TV show,
its content new each time it’s viewed.

Who knows the morning grass’s real face
when all we see is reflected light
from a giant ball of gas in time and space?
And to make matters worse,
thanks to Darwinian fruits
springing from evolutionary roots,
our hungry eyes, in their perpetual search
for food and sex and shelter,
heavily condition the content of perception:
while a mere 25 percent of snakes have venom,
if you want to stay away from heaven,
it’s better to believe there’s poison in every species
just in case you tumble on one in the jungle…

If there is no Earth beyond
our seeing, smelling, and telling of it,
maybe that bonkers Bishop Berkley
was barking the right tune:
if there are no “public objects”
in some “preexisting space”
then I object to the appellation of
the “public bench” in the park,
a useful fiction like Noah’s Ark,
in the utilitarian utopia
of daily linguistic intercourse.

Of course, if the idealists are right,
then this explains why aches and pains
are transformed by our mere attention to them!
Meditation would thus be so more
than the chore of intellectual masturbation
and don’t get me started on the meaning of hallucination…
A kind of semi-poetical regurgitation of the many ideas going through my head about various schools of philosophy, notably the convergence between ancient Eastern and Western idealism, Darwinism, cognitive science, and quantum physics...
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