From The Blueness

I’d approximate, like scansion, the curving, spawning motion of the storm.I’d chalk the line I’d nail with a nail gun. I’d touch two ends of the wiresto my tongue. I thought I could approximate the wobble and sputterof America, by Xing and Oing, by strangling the dream down to a trickle,a little Euphrates of longing, a lonely wronging, I could reach da dum, da dum.

Work was reds and blacks like funerals in Ghana, like country and western wear,or a hearse with a flame job. I wasn’t supposed to know the promotions and transfersever, work was elaborate ways to name the dead, praise, séance, burn money,voodoo against any disease that would cure greed. I wrote my code. I tookcalls and walked them through, talked them down from the ledge.

Work was improv but the bad kind with banjos, Dixieland. Work was wrong, wrong,partly wrong, you’d do better with scratch tickets [and sniff]. Work was a riffon life. Work was murder in the cathedral, sleep disorders, court orders, bordersXed, faces created, avatars, pleas [interrupted by texts, lunch, the rain].So I had fire installed in the sprinkler system. I don’t know my password.