leave it to the professionals

comfort squats on the part time worker,

stealing a rest in the desert

where the prickly pear

blooms bewareness as part and parcel of a wary dumping ground

littered with garden party accoutrements,

swimming pools of undrinkable water

and plastic bottles racing past tumbleneeds

toward the boarder's fence

where squatters hold sway while

trying to do number one or number two while avoiding

contact with an adverse terrain

of colosss husks

and burnt out pintos whose rusty comfort

returns his borrowed iron

into the ground by dropping sweat beads

onto a game floor

ruled by umps in loafers

who decree "play ball or blackball"

who scream "suck it up" while siphoning the gasps

of children fleeing "free tirade"

mad in the USA with boss springing the steens mtn. stallions free

in the movie version, in the disney venison,

getting comfortable with the corn eaters

in the black row of ledgers

running red ink

running out of metaphors for loss

running out of ways to screw with impunity

a stripped out threading where parts, partners,

frank steins brimming with bubbly "hey bub"

as the spokes define a hub

in the radial stretch of making it to the next paycheck

that bounces off the book cooker

and lands not on land but on the backs

of flipped turtles in their empire shells

calling the shots

from way off in lard conditioned eateries

making hypertension the medium whereby one presents any opinion

or addresses the gift of slave labor

to a hole knocked into a saguaro with a tiny sharp beak,

in a residential enclave cul de sac

guarded with goiters from incessant desk loitering

an ugly repose from which to respond

to pretty pleas for basic rites such as washing,

drinking, resting, breathing professional air

with unlicensed noses just out of reach

but easy to smack


5-9-15