Indra on the Lam

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.

.