This May

Hoola? Hulah? No. Hula skirt,
scattering wild from her hips.
Fire-fire-fire in waves
spin high in the eve.
Half-coconut bras and
pink neck-rings in bloom
and the stomping and
thunder of drums.
The sand rebounds in
peaks like the sea;
heard, but hidden from sight.

Summer Girl

Ticky tacky, ticky tacky,
swivel up like river wracky,
hippy left / pippy right,
hoola, hoola hoopy sight.

Homework due Tuesday

My mind is flush with tacky ideas
for an assignment on documentary poetry.
I think I'm boned.
Zeitgeistally cock blocked.
Dammit all to hell and back.
I hate this crap.
Maybe that's what I'll do...
The haiku defense!
A documentary poem about hating documentary poets!!!