Failing that, the cows mated in pastures
and the saints all dropped acid,
screens shattered around them,
falling plastic and glass darted through the square,
twinkled around the edges
and the martyrs fell in with the prostitutes
at cyber cafes where internet trolls
and media warriors lived vagabond
at all times. The streets began to warp
into the rice paddies they once were,
the teenagers with igirlfriends
and sloppy, sexless lives, dragged themselves
into the fields and made new love
to new dirt. The monks chanted
sutras from the temples before Tokyo
rose up from the swamp of its past,
recapitulated itself into the drying eyes
of the martyrs awaiting their executions
for their telling of a future
unstrained by the past. Tokyo, born
again from the ashes of itself.
Tokyo, born again from the ideas
hefted onto it by Carthusians
and Andalusians. Tokyo, born again
from how some thought it should be.
And now the internet cafes cool
down, whores roll in from opium dens,
fat half-chefs spin takoyaki in the streets,
and the saints sit with their
backs to the city, slopping up
ramen in a business cafe.

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