“Fungi are interface organisms between life and death” ~ Paul Stamets, an American mycologist
Cryptococcus neoformans
a heavily protected yeast
that looks like kiwi surrounded
by a white halo on an Indian ink stain.
Gay men
heavily protected
with a subculture that wards off
bigotry. I am under the
microscope of religious ideology.
I breathe the air.
The ordinary microaggressions and
pigeon
droppings lead to a hematogenous
dissemination of toxins destroying my
brain
from within.
Soap bubble lesions
and cryptococcal encephalitis.
My brain burns.
I close my eyes
until the zaps
go away.
Please increase my medication
by another 100mg
until my meninges
fuse together
and I am
“sane”.
I dream of escaping
to the lunar water
India discovered.
Escaping from the
religious cryptozoologists
that declare being “gay” is
a trick of the Beast.
Holy doctors treat me with amphotericin B,
fluconazole and some
reparative therapy.
Aspergillus fumigatus.
A fungal infection with
fruiting bodies: septate hyphae
and acute branches.
I was called a fruity body once.
The angles cut me sharp and deep.
I almost suffocated.
Individual humans cells
are facultative anaerobes.
They can survive without oxygen
but all together, a person (I)
can not survive.
I am slowly dying.
I breathe the air.
The oxygen is toxic.
Do I want hepatocellular
carcinoma?
Yes.
It is better than the aspergillomata.
Instead of asymptomatically suffering
people can see the horrible mess I am in.
Treat me with amphotericin B,
voriconazole and some
Holy scriptures written
on index cards.
Sporothrix schenckii
(Rose Handler’s Disease)
I remember planting roses
with my grandmother.
One day my grandmother
took both of my hands
and smudged them in the
tilled soil.
I screamed and ran inside
to wash my hands.
I did not want to be dirty.
My thoughts were dirty. I
was dirty.
I soon grew out of my
Pilate hand-washing
But it was too late.
The yeast continued to
grow inside of me.
I internalized the pain.
My lymph nodes became
enlarged with shame.
I tried to pull the thorn from
my side.
Each time I pulled the thorn
the spores disseminated more and more
throughout my body till
ulcers of self-hate colonized me.
Treat me with itraconzaole,
potassium iodine and
some “healthy straight male bonding.”
Blastomycosis
a fungal infection
that disseminates to my
skin and bones.
Shame is in my bones
and fire is shut-up
in my skin.
The fire melts my skin
from the inside
like a candle flame
burning wax out of existence.
Granulomatous nodules
form on my skin.
I am a social leper.
I show myself to
the priest to get
my prognosis.
He tells me
eternal damnation
or sudden death.
If the fungal infection
progresses to a point
sudden death from a heart attack
is my best option.
My soul can be saved from amputation.
The Flesh is meaningless.
I get an inflammatory lung disease
from thinking about my options.
AS is a poet, writer, chess-player, and a future physician. He enjoys writing poems in his spare time that are both intimate and expansive. He currently resides in NYC.