Philosophy is surely not
Red wine, cheese, and violins
It’s also beer, French toast, and fiddles

It isn’t living men in ties
And women in modest heels
Discussing dead men as old friends
Their laughs and voices echoing
Against old wood, brick and glass
It's all those things plus blue paint
As I try to depict the concept of lust

It’s a human on a train
Considering her own exalted ego
Balanced with the greater good
Wondering to what extent the two matter
As she debates whether to make a phone call
Or let an issue rest:
Ethics as practice

It's kissing gorgeous, hairy flesh
Accepting that marriage ends
Because of mortality
While trying to ignore that fact

It's pain in my throat, that old dull burn
Oh god I want to speak to my teacher-friend
Instead I curse the lack of said god
For my friend is not in heaven
And therefore can't hear me
But try not to give in, I think
To nihilistic despair
Or give death excess power
Let’s not make imperfection worse

Philosophy is quantum questions of forgetting:
What is the half-life of memory?
It’s in fluorescent restaurants
Meetings that break the dawn
As much as it’s in sacred, hallowed halls
With proscribed, normal hours.

The cup’s not half-full, that’s too little
No. Rather, the liquid spills over
Regardless of the chemicals contained.