The Outfit

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.

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