must be some kind of

initiation right,

a hazing ritual when

tropical-storm-covering-

tv-journalists

Seavees cemented in place

tethered to a cord

in category 5

hurricane winds

don’t blow away,

or at least sideways

like the violently

undulating background

hair-on-fire royal palms

howling ¡mayday!

the laws of physics

seem suspended when

the singular results of

cyclonic centrifugal force

are simply sopping-nylon-

clinging-jackets,

messy manes on talking heads

filled with hot air

and unintelligible news-

worthless babbling

like drunken beachside

wet t-shirt

contestants