Going Bananas

It's a hot day and I'm worried about the world and my own world. It's a hot day.

Friggin in the Southland

is tiresome. My fingers are

slick bones, numb tipped,
sensitive to women,

unable to hold employment.

Their raw, quick pain seeks to destroy
an imaginarily opera I’ve concocted.

I can’t hold the notes to completion

any more than the armless bitch
in the breastplate can deny

she’s chased away half the house

with halitosis. My sense of smell is sore
as fingerprints on a triggered bomb.

I gotta get outta here.

Don’t try to take my picture.
Don’t follow me with lotion.