Carmen Miranda's Hormonal Bash
Hormones are in labor.
The pituitary eschews the world
for being on automatic.
Anti-missiles and missiles
are malarkey, diabolically
situated in armpits
and other smelly caverns.
I wait for angels to defuse all
that is vexing and hazardous.
I despise interruptions while
eating my Oreo cookies
and drinking my Kool-Aid.
I ache to be free, like Carmen
Miranda dancing her chica-chica-
boom-chick on stardust portable
floors. Cornucopias of bananas
would leave no bellies aching
or begging.
I bathe my essence in a warm
tub filled with indescribable
aromatic juices. We overflow.
There's no locality here,
merely a place to aim for,
to decimate splenetic rulers.
