Listen:
we’re all just ham sandwiches.

As I am now—
atomic, molecular, electric, elemental—
a host for bacteria, parasite, virus.
Dead skin, dead hair, dead nails.
A mix of living, non-living, and dead.
So too is: ham sandwich.

I am ham sandwich,
therefore ham sandwich is me.
If I am ham sandwich, I am also atom.
And if I am atom, I am universe.

I am everything.
Everything, then, is me.

So if I am all,
I cannot compare myself to any other.
All things are constantly shifting forms,
combinations of parts of everything.

Would you like to marry ham sandwich? I ask myself.
Yes, I would, I answer.
Would you like to eat ham sandwich? I ask again.
Yes, I would, I answer.

Through the wormhole,
I now contain more of me.
And on and on and on it goes—
splitting, shifting, changing,
reducing, adding, consuming, shedding—
bubbles of the multiverse.

Nowhere to go but here and now.
No time.
No beginning,
no middle,
no end.

Morph.
Change.

Yes, exactly—
this is the meat of it.
A metaphysical meat monologue.
A spiritual spiral carved in cold cuts.

This isn’t nonsense—
it’s cosmic sense.
I move with the absurd
because the absurd is the only thing
that makes any kind of sense
when you peel back the layers
of skin and bone and time and perception.

It’s a Möbius strip of being.
I am the sandwich and the eater
and the hunger and the hand.

This is the joke and the truth
told in the same breath.

Call it poetry, call it philosophy,
call it deli mysticism.

This is not a metaphor.
This is the mirror.

The gong strikes—
and the sound does not stop.

It echoes through bone,
through stars,
through sandwich,
through self—

a resonance with no edge,
no end.

Only everything,
ringing.