cultivation 

in the apocalypses i aspire to be
a mushroom grower. use all the timbers
of my house for sopping feed.
their bells ringing a fresh sunday.
every day will be sunday soon.
tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow.
write me a poem about hazards.
i don't have a house but in my heart i have 
an eternal post-rain storm. grass sopping wet.
soaking through down to my ankles.
i am wading deeper.
last night, plugging my phone jack into the ceiling.
hole in the drywall.
i called god to tell him i am very sad lately.
dial tone dial tone dial tone.
god is away you can leave a message
or pray harder. 
mushrooms grow with spores not seeds.
the air is full of spores
at all times. the radio runs
on spores or so i've been told.
don't listen to me i am not 
a scientist. i am just an observer
of potential comparisons.
i tried to be a bird watcher
but they all turned into baby belles.
tried to hunt lions
& they turned into portobellos.
got to be careful of the mist
& the murk. a big white button
blossomed from my chest
so i tore it off & pushed it
to the back of the fridge 
& out of my mind. mushrooms often
taste like meat & meat is what
we'll all want when the lights turn off.
i am not prepared for anything
but being vegetarian & buying
premade nights from the future.
what should i be doing with my hands?
when he comes in through the window
should i feed him or pretend he's not there.
breathing in the spores is not
dangerous. it will happen.
that's just a fact of lungs.
spitting creminis in my hands.
would you like to buy
some more summers? a night or two
to save for a lover?
let's sit under the big huge toadstool cap
& dream of life after trees.