The Big B

The big B is Bisbee and he's here, the, the
man without sleeves. He's a community perhaps,
leaning as if he were leaning in. My desk
is like a pigeon skiffing the fallout
underneath the white skys of Bisbee.

Bisbee, lo. Tuned to our sufferers.
One-one thousand, two-one thousand little pigeons
with sore throats, sneezing, leaning upon
my desk of their suffering mouthes
and waving a crystal into that sky.

We are on our first dry run. I say.
They clamour at the jangle, jangle of his
American physique. It is the only one.

"That is the power and the massage," says
he, that's giving it to the pigeons
with his thumbs up in the air.

Let me have your hands, Bisbee. I'll
take them south, where the pigeons
are burning like wicks. The fall
is the springs in your chair and I
fall in my chair to a certain rest,
to the rest of all your pigeons
crying in the little windows
of little rooms. It is work to
tell some stories, Bisbee. You need
a story stick.

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.

On Salt

The salt is the part of my kidneys
that has rats in it.

Salt of my diet, lo. The fruit of
my kidney--my bean. Let me see

the normal group of tubors
undergoing week twelve of testing

for high end salt expression.

I work for an outfit. They are in on it. Take the waterfallings on the sidewalk, the picnics and these two only offices locked. A broad veiw of the situation calls for coming into a picture of working, me and my desk, you in yours, a flaying, a defenestration. Formatively, I was doing something and then my chin did me the pleasure of my elbows. I worked on the company, the pride of my teeth, the pliable disquiet. Someone says looking at paper and the computer are different. Someone is calling for Phil. Is always working. Pushaw,Pushawl. The spiders of the world tinnily fling off their silkenness--they fly down, fly down my angled desk and plastic paper holders. Fly down and lie my spry Anawak. It is tiny compared to my Texas country, where an effluvia of wild bees fastens to the horsehair. Bear my side, thing. My turtle bayou, the walk along. Lie here, outfitted, there.