Corinna, A-Maying the Apocalypse simultaneously celebrates and laments that "we are but decaying." Betraying a love of old poems and symbols and new words and forms, these are poems where "the moon's spritzing its perfumes and the phlegm is thick and fast" over cities and Starbucks and suburbs. The poet is in love with the rhythm of the man-made world, and "the rhythm is so strong sometimes / it blows up the room."