The Amoeba

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.