I am soaking in a kind of solution
like a world. A kind of “I” is soaking,
doing something like, in a sort of world
of likeness. A world made up of likenesses
that talk among themselves. A likeness world.
How alike I am is just how real. I am soaking
in a kind of solution like words. The words
are there, but there is something more. That jelly
of besides might be the real thing. But I can only
cipher it, race towards it through more liquid doors
of liquid likenesses. Every time I think of the world, a fissure
occurs between me and it. I’m multiplied. I’m more words,
protoplasm. I ooze towards the truth and some part of me
that broke off might get there. But it will never know
that some thing like me started the process. The memory
that goes forth is only a simulacrum of a self,
and it finds my primitive speech something extraneous
to my animal, something to forget. I am on equal
footing with the pseudopodia of the amoeba
when it comes to the inner writer’s opinion of me:
“tl;dr” said the DNA to the organism.
The amoeba’s sense of self is keeping me up at night. How can he just lie like that (I use “he” as a convention) and ooze all those pseudopodia out into the world fluid, as if to say, “Here I am. This is me!” on the right side, while over on the left side of this microscopic, supercilious, clear snot being another pseudopodium is greeting bacteria it wants to ingest with all the insincere warmth, the hot come on, of a used car salesman. A used car salesman who is trying too damn hard and who you just know owns only one pair of sneakers, which are really way too bright for his age. If you’re dying, don’t wear neon. That pseudopodium on the left is trying to shake protoplasmic hands too, saying “Why, Howdy! Glad to meetcha!” to any animalcule that gets anywhere near it. And so it is at the north pole of the amoeba. And so at the south pole of the amoeba. But here’s the thing. Probably every single one of us has dated that amoeba at one point in our lives, slept beside that amoeba for a night, or a few nights or more than a few years. Or maybe you’ve been him. The amoeba doesn’t really have a bad life. He doesn’t really even have to keep his stories straight. When he’s found out, he can just split. If you walk into a bar at night, there are amoebas everywhere.