Apricity Press Issue 2 March 2017 - Page 27

SELF JOHN PAUL DAVIS

I fell asleep thinking about my self,

the thing that is me,

distinct from any other

thing, & how even my skin

ultimately can’t count as a proper boundary

between my body & the rest

of the universe because of all the openings

where it curves inward, my lips

rolling under themselves to become my gums

from which my teeth sprout

& then my windpipe & esophagus

falling deep deep into me or think

for a second about how we see, photons

of visible light rebounding

off objects in the world then entering

the eye to tag cells hanging like stalactites

inside the cave wall of my eyeball

which sends electricity to the brain

what I’m saying is the distinction

between outside & inside,

me and not-me is a convenience,

a little fiction named John Paul Davis

that loves jazz & bounces big-stepped

down sidewalks & lately has grown

a longish beard & wraps its hair

in a bun & is this big bear

of a body a poet because it arranges words

in ways other people consider to be poetry

or is it a poet because I call

myself one? Why don’t I introduce

myself as a cookie-eater? I’ve eaten

far more cookies than I’ve written

poems & I am arguably a better cook than a writer,

my scrambled eggs are legendary

so why not open with “Nice to meet

you, I’m John, I make a very good breakfast,