This Is Not The Poem

Some wincing dude
grips his head,
puts his palms together,
Junes July,
and Augusts August.
Months are nouns
and verbs too.
You know it when you make
cold and wind in you grow.
There’s always a way
to climb in space,
in imagination,
on igneous walls
of cardiac crick.
A new music is playing
and I hear it
from my extra sides.
We are not alone.
Tiny thin men
in silver suits
inhabit us,
ray guns ablaze.
I know this is for paper,
for winning all robot races,
and recovering
the habit of seeing
the future.
The tragedy began
the moment I started flying.