If we’re going to philosophize,
it’s going to involve walking or wine
—fresh air, sunlight, and sky—
laughter, gossip, and small talk.
Sure, we’ll talk about God, Death, and the Human Condition,
but also that outfit—OMG! that outfit—you know,
the one she wore last night, to the Oscars.
Sure, we’ll talk about Injustice, Impermanence, and Imperialism,
but also blue butterflies from Baie-d’Urfé,
purple tomatoes from Santropol Roulant,
and red boots—HOT RED BOOTS!—from Fluevog.
Sure, we’ll talk about Plato, Nietzsche,
and that new one by Naomi Klein,
but also dystopian teen-lit
like The Hunger Games, Divergent, and The Giver.
Sure, we’ll talk about Climate Change, the Missing Girls of Nigeria,
and the appalling assault on civil liberties
that’s happening in post-Mubarak Egypt,
but we’re also gonna talk about the kids,
Meredith’s new place on Rue Chambord
and the vicissitudes of rooftop gardening in a hipster homestead.
Truth be told, there’s nothing we won’t throw
on the campfire of our conversation,
nothing we won’t sacrifice on the altar,
nothing that won’t be offered up
as a burnt offering to the God of Talk,
a deity who delights in frivolity and fanfare,
a deity whose Holy of Holies can be found,
wherever people gather to tweet like parakeets,
and groom each other like chimpanzees,
a deity who can see the beauty
in the pointless privileged prattle
of a Jane Austen novel.