Smoking American Spirits Like that name is not sickly ironic As I watch the moon And blow your name Out through my teeth.
After all of it I still can’t decide If I’m happy that you’re happy Or hate you for leaving me In the cold to gape At a barren rock.
The moon is a visceral spirit, Pundit of creation myths, Vaudevillian purveyor Of heavy handed profundity, Reflects the sun When nothing else can, Means so much to so many;
The moon is an entropic Collusion of earth-chunk That happens to orbit us, Objectively meaningless,
Communicating with the ocean As ants ***** chemicals Into each others mouths to converse.
Staring together up into The gaping gnash of space, Humans give the moon its meaning Just as two people falling in love Forever inhabit midsummer nights 'Till one leaves in a haze Of evaporating brain chemistry.
I really am happy you’re happy, Because I really do love you Even after everything, And I really do hate you Because it hurts so much And you were so selfish, Go **** yourself, Why can't I feel both?
Just this silly girl, Just two broken people, Look at what we made Chlo, It's hanging in the sky Strung up with used filaments.
I love you and hate you still Because knowing the moon Is a barren rock Makes what it has become Incandescently, infinitely beautiful.