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.