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,