notes on the lunar cycle (save me a slow dance)

farmers fill gray silos with handmade grains.
count days and days and waves and waves
with gibbous waxing and waning gibberish.

i am a farmer. we all are.
reaping and sowing and growing.
selling the fruit of our labor that we like
and throwing away or forgetting that which we don’t
with clichés like “ive had better days” and the
saturated grays and endless expanses of the same.
screen doors hanging above my head
and your head
and our heads
and so forth.

i am a poet. we all are.
spinning words and existence
with precision and persistence.
the only difference is the medium.
words are pictures are stories are fashion is music
and so forth

i am a lover. we all are.
charmed tales of princes with smelly feet
and dirtyhaired girls hiding in forts made
of metaphors and stale sheets.
dancing like no one is watching.

i am. we all are.
wailing crooning laughing crying
living dying.
opposites attract and refract forming
waves and waves for days and days.
i am. we are.
somewhere you are us.
that is we are everything
and we are the same
and so forth.