If moonless night, if cuttlefish ink, if the deepest caves of my body, if shadow/
were a stone that burns, if I felt cannel from a drift on Windrock Mountain,/
carbon dust pricking the old man’s face blue,
May 2024
London Calling: From the Back of a Dodge Caravan
It’s always a little strange to hear a dead man sing, as if you’re a medium communing with the past. But this is particularly weird, listening to this dead man inform me about the end of the world.
