Out of hand

Roads? Where we're going we don't need
limits? Where we're going we don't need
THE NIMITZ? Where we're going we don't need
the Nimitz.

Wicked Sunlight

My brain is grains of sand
slowly seeping out my ear-
filling up the shoreline
of this public beach,
as root beer colored waves
glide slowly, ever closer
to my toes- basking
in the wicked sunlight.

Seagulls squawk and craw
fighting over meager bits
of potato chips and the
end of a hot dog bun,
upon a paper plate,
blown askew by the wind-
which cools my skin
beneath the burning
wicked sunlight.

Mosquitoes move around my head
hovering with lust,
craving my blood as they
buzz their attack song,
flying to my tender flesh
jabbing their terrible spears
into my bicep, ear, and neck.
They suck their pilfered lunch
through straws, all beneath
the blazing wicked light.

My hand is a lethal weapon
trained to kill on contact:
swatting furiously at my
bright red, inflamed arm
swiftly missing mosquitoes,
and bringing out massive
screams of agony
beneath the burning, blazing,
wicked sunlight.