19 november

While the bees come up I am dreaming in rhymetime the sleep that I dream of is taking its toll on my days but the ways that I mean to think of are unwieldy in the steely glare of the sunset strip – I am tripping over imagery – I am shivery in my own designs as the traveling fines and the toll roads explode into fares we must pay, into crimes we must stay like executions, the easy solutions and the carbon copies – the we way we adopt these travelers as our own families, the easy unravelings of design flaws as the curtain claws itself open (we’re hoping for a change but no way to rearrange the menu – can you listen to the soldiers on the field of glory, warriors exploring worry and hurrying toward fate)  -- Let us cancel our own checks and balance the lamps, camp out with doubts in out pockets and talk that mean game, claim out own tickets – have you any rickety rockets we can build our spacesuits on? We are pawns of our own building, we are whines of our own chilling and the cheese is just enough, and the cliff is just a bluff.