The fungus eats its way through me, without eyes,
its stomach grows through my stomach,
the tissue cavern held together with strings of night.
The mushroom spoors, tendrils green and bound
with starlight, seamless distance from planet to planet.
The mushroom digs deeper into the dirt of me,
tries to take root in my Tokyo, in clean bright buildings,
and layers or rooftops busheled to tile
like forest upon forest of people, grit upon street,
piles of white paint pointing around street bends,
endless block-walled streets, deeper and deeper
into the inferno of the lung, filaments colliding
with umbrellas in the rain to terminals
of kidney where the fungus extrudes upon retention
walls holding up apartment blocks, greening
under an army of children all wearing the uniform
of eyes, awed at the massive lcd screen raising
over the ten pointed intersection, bubbling
into the brain with a fuzz of neon, beating
the night with the pulse of a luminous heart.
Growth in the sovereign forest, concrete depth,
bristling city, gleaming with thrust and ooze.
Transition of consequence, this fungus grows
on a corpse, making new gloss. The mushrooms
sprout endlessly. I build this city inside me
again and again, inside wooden houses, creaking
and filthy, inside linoleum courthouses, pathetic
and consequential, in fields of gnats and essential
cut grass, blooming with bottle caps, their gentle
edges cutting my feet. The mushroom grows in me
out of this Tokyo inside me, robot city, neon subway
map city. You don’t know, but the streets
grow like a fungus inside my mind at random
in order to confuse and fend off invading armies.