What is this existence I am?

Carefully, cautiously,

I walk into observation.

What are the things I am seeing?

Can they ever just be what they are?

Is it appropriate to ask questions in a poem?

Or should the poem be

the question in itself?

 

Curvaceously, the world presents herself to me as an

other to be ravaged

caressed

stroked

blessed

poked

prodded

piked

and

lauded.

 

I must know.  I must know.  I must know.

There is no other road for this me that I have to be.

Go. Do. Be.

Actions reveal desires.

Only act, the future is unknowable.

I am what I am not, and I’m not what I am.

The things I know so far. 

That’s about it.

I don’t even think I know on which side my bread is buttered:

is it the top or the bottom there?

 

And so I must go about my project of ravagement

with a vigor as yet unrealized in the world.

I must go about my project of caressing,

with delicacy and tenderness.

I must go through and stroke and stroke and stroke,

until I have worn her through and can see inside.

and then I will bless her with perfumed

sacrifices and plates of ambrosia.

And I will poke her poke her poke her poke her

to see how much she can possibly stand.

I will go about my project of prodding,

precisely because I want her action.

I will pike her in every way I can:

leaving quickly and impaling.

And through it all my action will be with the project of

lauding the possibilities which I am as a result of my being in the world:

which are her.

A Burroughs-Gysin Cut-up

Place they acted from came

from their understanding that they knew wha

 

t is not located in excess

but in having a very clear conception of what you—

 

drinking a martini at 9am (gin: 20.00, olives: 3.00, Mary Poppins: free as a gift)

 

, at the very least, the session won’t be lasting all that long

and is largely based on how much you—

are capable of enduring.

 

The cold is always an endurance trial,

with day after day of icy arctic blasts attempting

to sway you into a more indoorsy type

 

to the pub and getting’ pissed up with his (or her) mates is a holiday I can get behind

 

for its

infinite probability.

 

Cogitations of existence's

essentially ephemeral

nature keep me company

climbing inclines, enjoying

gentle declines, and 

there's acceptance in my

 

start.

Because you cannot know

whether today will be 

your last opportunity to,

 

And then on an un-special day,

A realization:

 

“This is the day that lord has made,

I will rejoice and be glad in it,”

 

to emphasize:

A LOT

about excess and possessions and uselessness,

and I think we're at one of those spots ripe for

a full stop.

“This is the day that lord has made,

I will rejoice and be glad in it,”

to emphasize:

A LOT

about excess and possessions and uselessness.

O,

And then on an un-special day,

A realization: 

be 

your last opportunity to.

From their understanding that they knew what,

and 

there's acceptance in my

essentially ephemeral

full stop.

At the very least, the session won’t be lasting all that long

Because you cannot know

infinite probability.

Pissed up with his (or her) mates

climbing inclines, enjoying

whether today will be 

A LOT

of enduring, and 

there's acceptance in my

arctic blasts attempting

to sway you into a more indoorsy type

of those cogitations.

Drinking a martini at 9am

is a holiday I can get behind

A LOT

Because you cannot

think we're at one of those spots

with day after day of icy arctic blasts—

nature keep me company.

Place they acted from:

excess and possessions and uselessness.

Their understanding that they knew

The cold is always an endurance trial.

I think we're

A realization

attempting

to sway.

What Are We?

“What are we supposed to do with this?”

                        Perhaps that is the right question—at least

it has been seeming like the appropriate

                        question as of late—and finding the right

question is sometimes half the battle.

 

“Why?” has become seemingly more and more inappropriate,

if only because its implication is in the past—a thing that has

already happened.

 

The shift from the focus on the past to the focus on the future

with different methodological questions involving what and

how remind me of

 

style and Joyce and how it seemed like this is what sets art &

artists apart from the crowd.

 

Nobody cares why they do it until it becomes necessary from

a historical perspective and

 

they’re usually dead by then.

 

We are what we were,

not why we were.

We are what we will become,

not why we will become.

 

It all started a long time ago, see, when I realized I had

officially stopped questioning the motivation of my

roommates: I knew that the place the acted from came

from their understanding that they knew what was best for

them, and motivation is, realistically, the why? 

The only questions I ever had for them was about what they

did and how they went about doing it.

 

Why is important in its way,

but for me, I’m attempting

to move beyond metaphysics

and see the world through an

ontological framework—which,

for a guy whose major mode of

thinking has been actions reveal the

desires of the actor, is not a big step from

desire to asking, “What do you

want?” and “How do you go about

getting it?” 

 

Apparently I have been asking these questions

                        all along and simply not realizing what I was doing.

Apparently I have been wondering about what

                        and how for longer than I have even understood them.

Apparently I have been doing things I haven’t

                        understood, and that is essentially sublime, I think.

 

Right now I am channeling the sub-conscious, unworried

about the ramifications and repercussions of the words

flowing out of my mind and through my fingers: let

them come. 

 

What do they mean?

How are they being put together?