11 august

losing the will to word toward meaning as if seeming the scene is a good enough scheme to get by on to fly on long hours across a wide desk in narrow circles within a desert so measured but without any sense of the purpose the circus is meant to serve -- a sideways swerve from a freak show though the strange rumors have me there sooner than a calendar flailing in the propriety of explaining away pain unseen and points we mean to connect if we can collect enough of than to make it into a picture -- a missed serve and an unsteady pace as the race wins without and the dark flies buzz without excuses of poetry or hobnobbing knowing streams of stars when the cars give out and all to do is walk because talking has given up and there is no score to keep