I love summer darkness: its chewiness and burnish, how fireflies in the yardand headlights in the McDonald’s drive-through seemto be the same swarm.                                                                                                    I like to step out into itwith a good liquor sweat going,Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robotsrattling around my cheap speakers,                                                                                                    diminuendo, fuzz pedal,like I’m an instrumentand someone’s got their hands around my neckreturning me to the black velvetlining of my case.It’s ok, America. We mix the violence with the sweetlike a gun-shaped sugar bowl.Trace odors of a neighbor’s barbeque, trace memories that don’t cohere;if time is an illusion                                                this is                                                                                                the drummer                                                                                                                                                            staringa hole right through the back of the front man’s head,and I’m both of them,which is to say the moon.What do memories doanyway besides argue what is behind you                                                                                    is in front of you?Future says: Percocet, Molly Percocet. Can’t argue with that.Besides, sometimes the moonis too much, overripelike someone tried to fill it with all the tacky light of the world.If happiness were longer, or if it could be touched, who wouldtrust it? I think we would                                                                                                                just pull it apart.