For an hour the moon blocked by a monolith
further darkens this evening apartment.
I’d prefer the cool moon’s full absence.
Not to mention a fuller compliance
from the seasons, be it raw freeze
in January, or heat made permanent
by June, rather than this shibboleth
of dust and sunburn we call November.
I typed this poem down a search engine
like a corpse rolling a newspaper cone
to holler regrets from within his coffin.
Bodies will float by our windows.
Our bodies will float by windows.
The decline of a nation begins in its homes.
The Drones – Jezebel (maybe live)