Workout Advice #1

Lifting verses improves nomenclature

~~~~

Summer Storm

Time is no wheel
It is the road the wind

Time doesn’t spin
It vexes, excites till it is calm again

Time doesn’t even exist
Yet carries the ages

~~~~

Shitty Job

Admittedly the sky was blue
When I left you

The sun the orb of orbs
A gigantic yellow tongue

The green fields poured
Into my heart

The horizon slapped my back
In comradery

The day brimmed
Overflowed into my gait

Softly the stars honored
The way

The moon grows antlers and stops wearing clothes.

The cities of the Great Lakes are wild with the loneliness of the cosmos.

A penciled in whereabouts for identity. Synapses with the appetite of rainy pavement.    

The heart leaps grave canyons neighing stars. Only the ridiculous will survive.

Okay lost. Okay peanut butter and dusk sandwiches. Okay angels stole my socks.

Eyes the moon

For knowledge

It needs to remember

The first quiet steps

Of crossing the stars

The summer wind

Pacing in the August leaves

Always in September

The fleeing arrests

Of late summer blooms

The poets conducting

The toothsome fires

Putting out disasters 

Every flower in every abandoned city lot

Is part of eternity

In the reckless port of truth

With the rest of us. 

Both perpendicular and parallel 

And why not add paradox

Whose argument centers everywhere.

A poem causes data to quit.

Ambivalence is consciousness.

A green moon, said the June bees. And August
For a soul, agreed September. The obituary read,
It rained all day the first day of summer.

A moth is a solitary word and of the stars. Said July,
This ditty of a cosmos. The obituary read, 
On the longest day of the year we say goodbye. 

Under the long blue sky, we read out loud 
Our futures. And though I have already
Forgotten what was said, October remembers. 
And we hope for those who are gone this is true too.

The poet draws maps for imaginary tourists.

With these words
Underlines the galaxy.

The cosmos 
Is the footing
We stand on.

The leg-work of the eons.

The universe
Is a wave.

The wind measures the shore. 

Unknowing for a mustache. The universe strolls.

My feet

Are pirates.
My arms

Are pilots. 

My head

Is a checkout line
For daffodils. 

My lungs 

Are fine pastries

Of blue sky.
Me walking 

Like a song

Along the railroad 

Lines. 
My hands

Are roller rinks

Of sunsets. 

How can what’s finite
Fill the infinite?

What’s infinite fit
Inside the finite?