Prayer for Me, Lord

Lord, I don’t get this machine that take
my card and I better. I gotta get to Chili’s.
Lord, I am paid back for doing things innocuously, paid in
small sentences, reports, and 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, Lord of the infinitive
to understand. Dear Lord, work
is taking its place, rising and humming, it clicks at my desk
like a flaccid 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 on this blue carpet and killed
wandering outside and in between fat summer lizards.
These animals have the tongues of my Lord,
Lord of the killing, what am I 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 soup on my pants. 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.
Handling the documents and pain-killers and my wishes
to work for nothing. Dear Lord, taken for what
is amounting to plural rains in the afternoons, a workout
of evening showers, Lord.

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