“From the corner of a comfortable what-I-am-not,
I woke up from my reality-dream
and found myself working at the Museum of Philosophy
as a common custodian who shows around
in the exhibition on everyday thoughts
when guests ask who they really are.
I mostly love Socrates, I tell them. The One.
Especially because he unstoppably picked
his ugly nose, which today is a rare public pleasure
custodians miss in their daily work.
No one even dare to think about it.
‘Is it Kant’s thoughts hanging over there?’ one visitor asks me.
‘Holy moly. True it is,’ another says.
‘Strange frame by the way,’ they agree.
What a wicked thing to say.
A small name tag on my left jacket pocket tells me who I am.
Yet the exhibition to the right constantly makes me alienated.
My shirt is green-blue-grue
as a signal of the general confusion á la good Goodman’s. Logic
is meant for the caged hens of ontology.
‘No smoking in here, please’ I say.
Wittgenstein was in fact a language chancer.
Yet I have fallen in love with feminine phenomenology:
All the kisses are missing transcendence.
Here is the new discourse of Dasein to y’all: God and everyone can be
an existentialist philosopher,
also those who-know-not.”