Me

Dear Lord, the work is incomplete. My time
is up and empty. I don't understand what it is,
for there is a machine that measures me
and my card and love is waiting in the car
to get to Chili's fast. Lord, I am paid
back for doing things innocuously, paid in
small sentences, reports, briefs and abstracts.
Also having a role in paying me, in the time
it takes--these procedures are for the cannery--
my data spreads on this board that I have
also spread myself unto. Dear Load, the facts
as they stand on a dump truck full of mud and salt smell.
Lord of the infinitive to understand. Dear Lord, work
is taking its place, rising and humming, it clicks at my desk
like a flacid mouse. Remains. My co-workers stir
and I am bound to be guilty and quiet. I am angry
always, overlord: asking to be swept out,
to be cleaned inside, taken into a boat and slowly killed.
Killed of anger,of the approximations I have made and or
not being capable, killed for not loving this blue carpet and killed
wandering outside and in between the fattened
summer lizards. These animals have the tongues of my Lord,
Lord of the killing, of my loose mind, what have I been stabbing
at. My Lord of all portions and homes and books in their
cases. Lord of the muted assimilation of moths on
the hallway light. Lord, the people water crops and walk
the rows and know everything of you. But me, Lord,
of sonorous summer vents and a chill in my white legs. Dear me,
dear Lord the organs of the boat shake the playing of
the ropes I'm holding. And me Lord, at the tip
of a crude and mud lake, sailing around like an insect. Me Lord
with my foul hands on the documents, and my pain-killers,
and my wishes to work for nothing. Dear Lord, taken for what
is ammounting to plural rains in the afternoons, a workout
of evening showers, Lord.