Some say we are the Net of Indra –
diamonds linked in strands – all infinite
reflections of each other; or we are
a hologram – illusory projections
of the Super-real (in every atom of
the micro find the macro): or we’re both.
One of my favorite lunches when
I was a kid was Spam my mother slid
out from its can and sliced and fried
and put on toast – all salty, bland,
transmogrified: it glistened like an Indra’s
net of meat, a hologram of ham. Today
we zap spam to a cyber purgatory where,
perhaps, it waits to be imagined as
an Internet of jewels to serve to fool
the eye by mirroring a sourceless light.
I bet if you transmogri-fried me up
a portion of the Indra-netted night,
it wouldn’t taste unlike a hologram
of my mom’s Spam. Or Indra on the lam.