Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Done all of us a service; he's revealed
A further element of razzmatazz
That heretofore was cunningly concealed:
The TSA has always been in league
With those nefarious Underpants Gnomes.
The one to make us lie, cheat and intrigue
To wear, the others to steal from our homes
Our undergarments. First the little guys
Swipe what we have, then screeners take away
What we dare wear to airports. Then, surprise,
Once pantless at our destination, hey,
A posh airport boutique is there to sell
What we must simply hope was laundered well.
Monday, December 28, 2009
A flash occurs, and I am lost in space
Or time. So vividly another year
Dwells in my brain I'm not sure in what place
I'd find myself if I could know for sure.
In Boston I once lived and worked and walked,
And in the next-door universe I stayed.
Last night, in dreams, in Bethlehem I talked
With Donna; all this morning I have strayed
Back to that town where I have never been,
Then home to houses that I never bought
But looked at while I chose the one I'm in.
It's not that I'm unhappy where I am
But somehow all this day has seemed a sham.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Of these, my sonnets from this wondrous year.
I turn to you, my readers, offer perks
A-plenty, if you'll help me. A severe
And daunting task is looming. I must choose
Three hundred sixty five of these to place
Within that book, and really, I could use
Some input on what to select. I face
This task with shoulders squared, but truly find
It daunting. Some are easy to rule out:
The birthday cards, for instance, but, combined
There's still so many hundreds, and I doubt
They're all worth killing trees. So drop a line,
And tell me of your favorites? 'Twould be fine!
(Send suggestions HERE)
Saturday, December 26, 2009
If all of nature did seem to conspire
To keep me home, if you can catch my drift.
That's not to say I'm seeking to hang fire;
It's never fun to be stranded. But hey,
It's Saturday, and there should be no rush
To leave a cozy home and hearth today.
The roads are closed; it's no one's fault. Why crush
Another's spirits, focusing on what
You cannot do or where you cannot go?
It's Christmas 2.0. Why not just shut
The door and snuggle up, let someone know
You love them, rest and smile and call it good?
Your work and toil will wait, as well it should.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
The kitchen's why the KATE STATION is mine.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
I let some strangers take from me a pint
Of blood. The process still does have some flaws;
The pain, the fainting, in my case the fright
Of needles. Still I do it and I'm proud.
I've given gallons three as of today!
In doing so I'm part of a small crowd.
'Twould be much bigger if I got my way.
It's not so bad, but this time I've a gripe:
The finger that they tested really hurts,
A grave impairment when I have to type,
As right now. It's the one used for alerts
Of one's displeasure, called the "naughty" one.
Is this my punishment for having fun?
It's quite a day or two that Pepi's had!
Deflowered and abducted, now afloat
In outer space and orbiting, I'll add,
An unknown planet, lonely and remote.
Now hustled to a shuttle by his mate,
A big-eyed, grey mask pulled over his face,
A new world beckons to him! Oh that fate
Could bring a barman to this strange new place!
In no time he strides slowly 'crossed the sands
Of -- where is this? -- Pepito wants to ask,
But cannot speak; a breathing tube commands
His mouth and throat and slaves them to the task
Of keeping him alive, and nothing more.
So that is what the alien mask is for!
Monday, December 21, 2009
From Sol, our sun; the shortest day is here.
And, too, it is the sixty-ninth birthday
Of one of my great heroes. As this year
Plods onward to its close, I celebrate
Frank Zappa and his music and his wit.
I send my dirty love and a cupcake
To all who read this, and I do commit
To keeping Zappadan next year. Who else
Made music with a bicycle or could
Raise dental floss as livestock? Frank himself
('Tis he who tilts us sunwards now, for good)!
So now, let rip the weasels! Mudsharks, come!
And Happy Zappa Day to ev'ryone!
Sunday, December 20, 2009
From Saratoga, while my sister, Kris,
Is coming from New Mexico; the plan
Is that they will converge, if naught's amiss,
At my house, like the Simpson family
At credits' end. Meanwhile they're all in cars,
And I try not to worry. It will be
Just fine, I tell myself. I'll thank my stars
Quite soon that they all made it, hug them, and
Dish up some Bambi chili for their meal.
It's weird how ev'ry year, whate'er we've planned
This is the situation and I feel
The psychic strain of keeping on the road
Carloads of far-off loved ones, then explode.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Friday, December 18, 2009
Thursday, December 17, 2009
O Sithmas Tree, O Sithmas Tree you shine
All red and evil in my living room.
And once I've had a glass or two of wine,
You scare me just a tad there as you loom,
A phantom menace for my holiday,
Your top adorned with a shining Death Star.
Hear Yoda's vain attempts to warn away
Luke Skywalker from wandering too far
Into your sphere of influence, drawn by
Your shiny tinsel and your air of pow'r.
And Sith lords we have heard up there on high
Sing carols we know, gaily, on the hour,
Like Jolly Old Darth Nicholas and, too
Rudolph the Sith-Nosed Reindeer. Here's to you!
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
But get thy mind from yonder gutter, please!
I'm speaking of a freaky octopus
Who lives exposed in sandy-bottomed seas,
The Amphioctus marginatus would
Be vulnerable there were not for its
Ingenious use of coconut shells, good
As snail or nautilus ones, when they fits
The octopus's body. When it must
Go roaming, Marinatus sometimes goes
On two tip-tentacles; the others just
Wrapped tightly 'round his head; therefore what shows
Looks like a walking coconut. So smart!
He shows Cthulhu's lineage in part.
(Nor did I, but 'twas not my natal day!),
But I shall still declare that, yes, despite
The weather, they rained down for thee. Hooray!
Your snark and nerdly knowledge nonpareil
Could pull down e'en a real-life falling star.
I have to say, you always make me smile,
With ev'ry tweet, just being who you are.
So, William Donohue, I truly wish
A long lifetime of many great returns
Of this fine day, till you are quite old-ish
And gladly imitating Mr. Burns
And other scary, nerdy, fine old men.
And keep on quoting Daffy until then!
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Saturday, December 12, 2009
A secret -- and not even on Formspring
(I'm on there, too, right here) that for his shield
And for his loved ones, too, he likes to sling
An unexpected battery of -- no,
Not Spanish Inquisition types -- rare birds:
Some hardcore, kickass, ninja-skilled (although
Innocuous to look at) robins. Words
Cannot convey my shock and my delight!
He hath commanded one, Beverly fair,
To watch o'er me and keep me, day and night,
From harm. To be the object of such care
Is no mean thing! I'm safer now, by far,
Than many a much-coddled movie star!
Friday, December 11, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
My old-school iPod shuffle just clips to
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
To celebrate what is my Friday night.
But as I find a window and I scan
The snowy streets, one fact doth come to light:
What now is fluffy snow will get packed down
By rush hour's vast herd of cars and trucks
Until quite nearly ev'ry road in town
Could double as a hockey rink. Aw, shucks.
I do have errands that had best not wait,
But they can happen ere sunset and then
It's best that I head home. T'will be too late
By then to venture safely out again.
Perhaps if holidays weren't here to cause
A surge in drunken drivers I'd not pause.
Monday, December 7, 2009
A temperature of Zero Degrees "Eff"
(With emphasis on "Eff"; I won't be bad
And spell out what that stands for). Some foul theft
Of all our warmth had happened in the night,
And sunrise did not bring us more. It's cold -
More so than a well-digger's butt, all right,
As my friend Bonnie eloquently told
Her Facebook friends, which prompted a profound
Discussion, how the baseline readings came
To be established? Did one ask around
And quote well-diggers' feelings name by name?
Or was data - empirical and real
Recorded. Just how cold did each butt feel?
But it's also a day to celebrate!
Pearl Harbor took its blow in history,
But something lovely happened this same date!
Tom Waits was born, whose music changed the game.
A smoky, growly voice, like to a drink
Of bourbon on an empty stomach. Name
Me one more guy whose songs so make one think
Of seedy sadness e'en as one rocks out.
Percussion with found objects, horns and things
I can't identify all make me shout
With glee on hearing them, e'en ere he sings.
Nor doth he make just music: look right here.
He's also had a nifty film career!
So I discovered yesterday once I
Had published, on a dare, a poem, in part
About a great impairment that is my
Achilles' heel at work: how such folk speak.
It's not that it's not charming, even cute,
As my friend Carla knows - it leaves men weak
I'm sure, to hear her sling it. No dispute.
But when a guy with one just cuts right loose
With deformed vowels and drops his consonants
In serious situations, there's no use
In pondering my preferences or wants:
I just plain have to tell them "come again?"
And vent a bit of spleen, just now and then.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Of those times when what happened got too weird,
One explanation only could hold sway;
One possibility 'mongst those that reared
Their heads could be the truth: that David Lynch
Was hiding in the room, mast'ring the scene.
The man who made Eraserhead to pinch
Our twenty-year-old brains, crafted the keen
Hilarity of that Blue Velvet flick,
And made of Dune a less coherent tale
(Though visually awesome) -- no mean trick --
Than Herbert did -- that David, without fail,
Had taken over the directorship
Of these, our lives, so suddenly a trip.
Of challenges that many find bizarre.
Time management, of course, as who has not,
For instance, but for me it's the Boomhauer
That really drives me round the bend when one
Addresses me (I've sev'ral in my care).
There is no accent spoken 'neath the sun
That I can't comprehend except that there.
Ascemic writing holds for me more sense,
And I find glossolalia a breeze,
But no, it's Bubba-speak that has me tense,
Uncomprehending, yes, and whimp'ring "Please,
Just speak some English I can understand.
Or send me an interpreter? How grand!"
Saturday, December 5, 2009
A wise decision happened to occur:
That Prohibition by the stupid State
Of alcohol was not so bright as were
Some other things we happened to append
To our fine Constitution. How "repeal"
Rings musically to mine ears. I'll spend
A happy hour quite soon, I now reveal,
A-toasting this, the wisdom of those who
Did vote in 1933 to lift
The ban on booze. I'll have a drink or two
In celebration. Then maybe I'll drift
Into good writing mode, or just play chess.
With freethinkers it's anybody's guess.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
But that explains not how it's five o'clock
And I'm on just my first shot of black brew
And only now have op'ed my mouth to talk.
When one lives by oneself this is a risk:
Entire afternoons can disappear
Quite wordlessly if outside there's a brisk
And bitter wind to keep her indoors. Here,
The sun has gone to bed and I've not done
A thing I planned to do save laundry. Now
On overtime I sit at work. No fun!
While projects languish back at home, and how!
A sin it is to waste my time that way,
I've even missed the blue and red and grey.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
And nearly time for me to call it quits.
I stretch out with a smile, my limbs uncurled,
Preparing to go north to match my wits
With my friend Jana on a real chessboard
Instead of one on Facebook, and to quaff
Some margaritas. I'll emerge restored,
I think, from Chugwater (now don't you scoff;
It may be podunk to the untrained eye
But it is all about who lives there, no?)
I'm sure that soon the time will simply fly
Too swiftly and 'twill be time to come home.
Oh -- wish me luck, would you? She's kicked my ass
Of late. I'm tired of losing; e'en with class.
Our dear Phil Rossi, but that's far from all,
There's music, too, when he reads one of his
Great podcast novels; that Virginia drawl
And growling voice is perfect for those tales.
If you'd prefer some print, here's Crescent, creeps
In space for all. I've gladly watched its sales
A-soaring; 'specially as our boy just keeps
On having wee ones. Piper joined the crew
Just days ago! And Phil's started a blog,
Not Just a Dad. You see why I say "phew!"
To top it off, he has a way with grog.
So all signs say his birthday will be made
Of finest win. Such shall be our crusade.
Monday, November 30, 2009
I mosey to his blog to see what's new;
Chris Butler's not yet reached his artist's prime.
But fine art isn't all that he can do -
Go listen to him. He's another wise
And thoughtful voice on matters we find strange.
I'm liking what I'm seeing through his eyes,
And, too, participating in his range
Of Google Waves. His birthday is today,
A Monday, but if there is anyone
Who can transcend that, it is he, I'll say.
So go forth, IsoBan, and have some fun.
Then please continue opening up minds
With thoughtful questions and intriguing finds.
I hold the world in trust for when our man
Scott Sigler takes his post here at the helm
As our Dark Overlord. He really can
Take over governance of this, his realm,
Whene'er he chooses but he likes to watch
His fey Dark Regent squirm, I sometimes think.
Today's his natal day, so we're a notch
Much closer, I suspect, now, to the brink
Of his dominion. Best to be prepared!
Your chicken scissors you will yield to him
As tribute. Only hot goth chicks are spared.
To be delivered via forklift, limb
By limb (though "forklift" won't be what it's called)
And dumped before him all tangled and sprawled.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
To see it passing overhead at dawn
Or dusk. But now up there upon one deck
A new experiment is going on
Combining the two things I love the most
(That's space and entomology if I've
Not been too clear on this here blog)! A toast:
To Butterflies in Space! Well may they thrive!
And just today a caterpillar formed
A crysalis, the first in micro-gee!
It's been many a day since news has warmed
My heart as this has. They could hear my squee
From orbit, I am sure. And now we wait
To see the butterfly ere it's too late.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
I deeply miss the grasshoppers who flit
Around the Greenway as I pedal through
Their congeries in summer. Sometimes it
Was my best moment all day. How I rue
Their passing and the odd mantid who hid
Among them. But today I found this pool
With help from Bug Girl - she's the one who did
Call my attention to it. All my cool
Escaped me in one squee to look at these:
So many origami arthopds!
E'en entophobes among you, if you please
Will find one to delight you. Oh, ye gods!
The internet's a true, great treasure chest.
But I love all the insect pr0n the best.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
And sep'rate miracle as time goes on.
I dislike somewhat that we have to call
A special day to do it, then be gone,
But so we do and here we are again,
To dine and dig each other. As these go
Thanksgiving is my favorite, has been
E'er since one in a church in college, so
Damned groovy, that, it changed me through and through.
Good food and love can always make a day
A special one; add friendship to it, too,
And gratitude comes naturally, I'd say.
I know for most today just starts a round
Of celebrations - but this one's profound.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Most mem'rably by Robyn Hitchcock. I
Am always slightly shocked and quite appalled
To come to visit folks only to spy
A television that is never dark,
Not even during meals or talk or games.
It shuts me down to see it; harsh and stark
Alienation grips me. Call it names,
The Glass Teat or the Boob Tube, still it has
A death-grip on the consciousness of those
Who worship at its altar. I'm a spaz
When seeing it, I wrinkle up my nose
And mental nausea kicks in. And yet,
I feel like I'm the jerk because I fret.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Was MST3K's debut. I'm stunned!
This may well be my all-time fav'rite show.
Bad movies, mostly sci-fi, mocked and punned
By Joel, then Mike, and wondrous robots three,
Tom Servo, Gypsy, Crow (and Cambot, too
Of course, so kind of four). That once TV
Held wonders such as this can see me through
A dismal survey of much modern fare:
Imagining what these guys would have said
While watching the new Indy Jones, I'd bear
Much worse, I like to think. Still in my head,
I send a Bannergram to Joel and Trace
And Josh and all the Best Brains guys. My face!
Monday, November 23, 2009
Our Lady Frostbite really can't be stopped.
A streak of mohawked blue we can't but like,
Her lovely face and mind just can't be topped.
I have no notion what she'll do at last
When she's "grown up" but full-time awesome can
Be her milieu, I think, and going fast,
And climbing rocks and riding space-worms when
She isn't reading just amazing books
Or playing music that blows out the top
Of my poor skull -- with which she throws out hooks
In her descriptions that make my brain pop
E'en ere the music makes me tap my toes.
Melinda's why that part of PA glows!
Sunday, November 22, 2009
It is the only basis folks have got.
For understanding. It's too hard to guess
Intent behind bare words when they have not
A face to watch, a voice to listen to.
Relationships online have this pitfall
Built in before one thought, even, comes through
For misinterpretation. I won't call
This flaw a fatal one but it's severe.
Imagination fills in gaps that would
Best be left empty, and the common fear
That one is being dissed -- which never should
Come into play, still does -- and what we find
May shatter 'stead of bring us peace of mind.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
I won't say sour, but there's a bitter edge
To my experience these days. Tears burn.
Remembering one to whom I made a pledge
Of endless love and friendship won't be there
Is hard, but harder still, I start to find,
Is when another denizen won't spare
A thought to why things change, becomes unkind,
And makes me feel unwelcome in my space.
I'm digging in my heels but there are times
When I just want to give up, turn my face
Away. But I would lose much more. To rhymes
I turn to put my discomfort in words.
I'm really just a chicken and it hurts.
Who also goes by name of Walter Hawn,
Has made another journey 'round the sun,
But need not wonder where the time has gone.
This cat's been living life like we all should.
A broadcasting career in which all pride
Is justified, and now he takes some good
And lovely photographs and, in his stride
Writes lovely haiku for us all to read.
I've yet to meet him, but the day I do
You all will know; it will be quite a screed
I write to celebrate. I hope it's soon!
I won't say, quite, that Walter's getting old,
But rather that he's wonders to unfold.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Our IronMan1176, he's styled,
Or Avery K. Tingle if your own
Staid preference goes there. How I have smiled
In reading his great blog, his novel and
His random thoughts on Twitter. He's one guy
I'm happier to have as a friend than
To be on the wrong side of, or as I
Affirm is worse, to be a stranger to.
He works as hard as he plays, also loves
Devotedly, as Molly'd surely coo.
His fierce determination quickly shoves
Aside what obstacles get in his way.
And it's his mumbleth birthday just today!
Monday, November 16, 2009
My friend is "out there" somewhere. He's just gone.
Not waiting in a next life to receive
Me or his other friends when we've "moved on."
An afterimage burned within my heart
Still glows and will do so for long years yet
As ever happens when one does depart,
Those left behind must strive to not forget
The lost one. If they do, there's nothing left
But ashes blown before the wind. That's all.
I wish I could think otherwise, bereft
As I am now. 'Twould be nice, but I call
Myself out for pretending. Mac's just dead
And all that's left's his voice inside my head.
Of skipping on the sonnet-writing. Why?
Well, Twitter's like a smile with no front tooth
Since one of us was lost. I look and cry
Whene'er something reminds me that he's gone.
Today it was the shuttle launch. I gawk
At ev'ry one and know the day will dawn
When up will go the last of them. Such talk
Was part of what I shared with Mac - we feared
The space program had peaked and would decline
Through politics and budget cuts. I cheered
To see Atlantis launch, was feeling fine,
But then, I don't know why, it hit me square:
A month has passed since he left us. Not fair.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Came from the Patent Office last month, and
Was in the New York Times today. "Let's fuse
Our lovely tech with advertising! Grand!"
Quoth Randall Stross (I paraphrase) by way
Of summing up his thought's on Apple's move,
Applying for a patent on, they say,
A gadget highjack, quite against the groove
We think is Apple's. Make your iPod freeze
Until you prove you've watched the ad it's shown?
Anathema! Yet cooler heads say "Please,
Is this indeed the Apple we have known?"
Perhaps it's just a measure to prevent
Some others making real what we'd resent.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Friday, November 13, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
That I would take a Google Wave invite
If one were offered, though I am without
A clue, really, as what might come to light
Once I am on there with my Twitter buds.
Collaboration always sounds quite good,
But sometimes leads to unbearable duds,
If no one has an idea of what should
Be happening. Does anybody know
What we're supposed to do once we're on board?
I'm always game to give something a go
And pitch in with my best creative horde.
Right now though all I think about is hype
And wonder if I'm quite the waving type.
Monday, November 9, 2009
An application that alerts me when,
Like Horkheimer I look up, I'd have missed
A special sight if facing wrong. I've been
A gawker at the skies since childhood, and,
Like many thought I'd be an astronaut.
That didn't happen, but in quite a grand
Tradition I watch ships launch and you ought
Not be surprised I sometimes crane my neck
And watch for our space station overhead.
Tonight at 6:07 a bright speck
Will come from west-northwest. I'm oft in bed
When such a chance occurs, or there are clouds.
Tonight though, I shall see it; nothing shrouds!
Sunday, November 8, 2009
With you my friend, and now I guess I won't,
Not evermore, but I resist the tear
I want to shed. Your daughter's right; you don't
Want us to cry. We had a lot of fun
In building our community. You were
A hell of a fun guy to know. I'm one
Of many who will miss you. There's a blur
Now in my eyes, but still to this I cling:
I've memories galore to make me smile,
As do we all. But may I say one thing?
While you had quite a run I still revile
That fate just took you from us. Friend, farewell.
I know that where you are you're raising hell.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Absorbed in work and play, ignoring me,
I suddenly can't shake or call a joke
The feeling that has made me want to flee:
Just weeks ago a jackass in a truck
Hit me on Deep Blue as I crossed a street.
Just days ago another tested luck -
The driver, texting, nearly made me meet
My newly-dead friend sooner than I'd planned:
Was head-on for me and swerved as I did
To miss. It seemed dead-certain that my grand
Time on this Earth was done. Did someone bid
Him look up? It's unknown. But now the sense
That something wants me dead, too, is intense.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Shed leaves are dry and clatter through the street;
Cool browns, dull greys, some golds but only one
Bright hue relieves the muted palette. Sweet,
The year is ending. Dormancy prevails.
Yet deep inside each thing is closely held
That which against all chills' attacking fails.
Not death but strength tones down the colors. Quelled,
Then, should be any talk of loss, ennui
Or sadness. Beauty sometimes takes on stark,
Surprising forms if one has eyes to see.
It's there throughout these days, e'en in the dark.
Take time today; go outside and admire
The bold tenacity that guards the fire.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
To Saratoga after playing chess
With a dear friend. I felt well and alive -
And blaring loud my iPod, I'll confess -
When suddenly my heart stopped; in my ears
Mac Tonnies' voice was murmuring. I had
Reloaded just that morning; it appears
I missed that -- and I won't say this is bad --
His Coast-to-Coast appearance made the cut.
I'm proud of what he did there, though the shock
Of hearing him while driving hurt me. But
Once tears cleared I stopped my car and took stock:
I've him and all the music we have shared
Right there, and it's OK now I'm prepared.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
And sometimes we lose track of who has come
Through with us. Mostly those we've lost are found
But sometimes gone for good, and we're left dumb,
Confused and sad and lonely, crying out
For someone who's no longer there. That's pain,
But those same doors whose closure gave us doubt
Can also bring just what we need: we gain
In losing. Old friends still along with us
Step up and help, and strangers become new
And wondrous sources for what we lack. Thus
Has gone my week-and -change since something drew
Mac Tonnies from our lives. There all along
Were people waiting to help me be strong.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Have yet to write a word, but am not blue.
Though precious hours keep on ticking by,
I'm sanguine, though there is so much to do!
Those fifty-thousand words of fiction won't
Just write themselves, but I think I might feel
A bit like they are! Now, dear readers, don't
Go thinking I'm blase; this is a real
Commitment, but this year so many friends
Have made it with me that I'm giddy from
Anticipation. We bust out our pens
(Or typewriter in my case) and succumb
To that old urge, court muses, make our starts
And know that all around beat sim'lar hearts.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Takes songs and tales and poetry and play.
Comes time for me to thank those who, in part
Have made or done the things which, I may say,
Have proven the best medicine for me.
Phil Rossi wrote a song that e'en before
The hardest blow came down did help me see
A light at tunnel's end. And there is more:
For Jeremy Shipp's novel did a lot,
As did a poem by Gregory Wright
He wrote just for me, to tell me I'm not
Alone, not even in the darkest night.
Thanks too, to my White Rabbit and John Ladd:
Chess therapy is good, too, when I'm sad.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
I couldn't find it, deep beneath the snow
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
As I told a good friend just last week. I
Spoke then of matters other than the whirl
Of furious creation that soon to fly
Into my face: NaNoWriMo doth come!
My life, already out of shape, will warp
Still further, though not quite so much as some:
I have not made an outline, do not sport
So much as one lone character sheet yet.
That feels like cheating, like a lack of trust
In my November self. I shall not get
Into that frenzy 'till I truly must!
Though just here in this sonnet, I'll admit:
My friends who've done so seem prepared as spit!
Monday, October 26, 2009
An author of a Binder, lo, of Shame.
Such lore of gaming horror could not be
Quite real, I told myself, as I became
A devotee of misadventures like
The Achy Breaky Mythos. "Funny" does
Not e'en come close; today these tales still strike
Right home; my eyes tear up! But all that was
Long years ago. These days he's pioneered
Five-second fiction, sick and wrong and great,
The Third Al Bruno has, and I have cheered
Each new bit of his novel. Lo, that fate
Should bring his lurker, me, to be his friend!
Oh, happy birthday, Al! Days without end!
Sunday, October 25, 2009
A threat was made one time to take away
My bottle. You may well imagine - sheesh! -
The furore that ensued. "No!" I did say
Unhand that; 'tis well known I can't get well
Without the fruit of many a fair vine,
Yea even were it only Muscatel
(Though I prefer a somewhat nicer wine).
And though ye may beat my head out of shape
As long as I am left enough to toast
My health and yours, yes, please leave me my grape,
Then truly you may lead me out to roast
In hot sun or on fiery coals, your choice.
With whistle wet you'll barely hear my voice.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Not from a bug or virus; 'tis a mere
Rhetorical device. It has increased
In volume, sure, as I know you can hear.
But I'm not sick. And no, no fever burns
My face and chest; my disposition's warm
By nature. No, just as each season turns
Adjustment's needed to this hardy form
Which I inhabit. What's that? Not a sneeze.
You're quite mistaken. I said you are QUITE
MISTAKEN. Well, a little hoarse, I -- please!
I talk all day to earn my keep. By night-
Fall all that I sometimes have left
Is this wee croak. No, I'm not sick; you're deaf.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Mac Tonnies, how I longed one day to meet
And talk with you directly. I've admired
Your books and blog and links. Your ev'ry tweet
Brought strange new wonders. You knew you'd inspired
A lot of my big project. I'm so glad
I told you this and shared with you my plans
Which you refined and cheered on. Now, well, "sad"
Is quite inadequate. Among your fans
Your voice, it will be missed - by ev'ry one
Who wants to take enigmas with more than
A grain of salt and not make woo-woo fun
But really try improving the slight span
Of knowledge that we have of what's beyond.
I'm devastated, Mac, that you are gone.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
I should not be surprised that Richard Heene
Believes 2012 will be the end
Of everything, and wanted some more screen
Time ere it all went down. But as my friend
The Astroengine says, be grateful for
Such nutters and the fodder they provide
For bloggers and for skeptics. I want more!
We've two years ere the epic and worldwide
And non-event takes place. Meanwhile we must
Put on our party-planning hats: 12/22
Of that fine year: Chichen Itza or bust!
When ev'ry skeptic who has any clue
Must gather, drink and dance and launch balloons.
I'll bring the sake. Ian, do the tunes?
Monday, October 19, 2009
Which won't be here 'till Thursday or perhaps
Wednesday if I am lucky. Do I feel
That way? I don't, not since my crash. Those chaps
At Rock on Wheels at least have found a way
To cheer me some: a loaner bike awaits
At yonder store. I feel that I betray
My love a bit, but man, I've got the shakes.
My bicycle is more than just my friend,
My ride to work, it's, too, my therapist,
Without whom I have gone right 'round the bend
Especially since fine weather does persist
That beckons so, a cyclists' siren song
I can't resist. Please tell me: is it wrong?
Sunday, October 18, 2009
I'll go out now and then to see what's new,
But generally I'm the type who's seen
Off in the corner, a good friend or two,
Sometimes a small crowd, list'ning to my tales
And telling theirs. But last night found me out
In noise among the hip-hop crowd. Details
Don't matter overly. We had to shout
To be heard, and the tunes were all the same,
Some chanting, thumping bass, an endless drone.
These days, to me, what music's worth the name
Needs more than just a heartbeat. On my own
I pine for something somewhat more complex
That makes imagination stretch and flex.
Since we were sixteen years of age and we
Were turned loose at UW. Too bad
It's been so long since we've managed to see
Each other. Since your wedding, I believe?
And now you and our Shannon have two sons!
Do rest assured on this, your birthday, Steve
That never will they know from me our runs
To fetch non-dairy creamer late at night
And light it off like hairspray -- unless you
Have told them this already. May delight
In fam'ly life and travel continue.
Here's hoping that your birthday, Steve, is swell
And that fair San Francisco treats you well.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Blaze orange clothes and hats, and pickup loads
Of animals and parts thereof, and scenes
Of game wardens beheading, 'longside roads
(To check for chronic wasting disease signs),
The newly-harvested elk, moose and deer
And checking paperwork, issuing fines
As needed. Then there's something that I fear
Most deeply, though my stomach's truly strong
(A fancier of insects needs one such):
That's graphic talk of wounds and pus and wrong
And pungent smells from parasites. Too much
Of that talk always makes me ill, yet lo:
It is my fate to hear it, ever so.
His hat brim pulled down low over his eyes,
That one might well guess that he's packing heat.
It's all good fun until somebody dies.
Let fly some bullets from a doorway; rip
They do through all, and one more bites
The dust, as oft is said by those real hip
Cats Freddy Mercury sang for. Such sights
Are common in Steve's world. They rip again,
As though to some drum beat, and, oh, these plays
Must end in blood; revenge is best served when
One has been cheated, beaten, left for days
As Steve has surely been. There goes one more
And sure more violence must lie in store.
Friday, October 16, 2009
As I watch that rare queen ply all her arts
To snare one that my shallow weakness spurns
To go after myself. She's broken hearts
A-plenty before now; tonight it's mine
Though it is not her that I want, but him.
Just watch her go in satin tat so fine
And bipp'ry-bopp'ry topper with a brim
I'd laugh at were I not at heart so sick -
I'm sure I could exceed her in her deeds
Of conquest were I to make e'en a lick
Of effort just to plant down there the seeds
Of lust for me instead of her? But no
I hang back longingly and watch her go.
Like kooky Stephan Spiegel's done, in spades.
He knows I like a challenge, one that bends
My ingenuity and kills time. Shades
Of kings of old and court poets now haunt
My ken as I discharge this commission:
Its key is using "k" words on this jaunt
Through sonnet-land in each line. Kids, I've gone
Right out to lunch with this one. Karma claims
He owes me extra big for this big killer dare.
Take up the ukelele? Let the names
Of all his children be my pick? What's fair?
For now I'll blow a kiss his silly way
In thanks for what has surely made my day.
With more than one six-pack of Guinness, one
I much prefer; it's closer to my home,
And lovelier by far in morning sun
Or eve'ning starlight: that is Vedauwoo.
In Denver's traffic I am always lost
Unless on foot on Sixteenth Street - though, too
I'm often lost in thought and at great cost
There, with the Wazee Supper Club and, yes,
The Tattered Cover, wallet beaters both.
As for the Mile High City in my car?
I'm hopeless. Better for me, by my oath
To climb on rocks and up there drink my beer,
And take in all the silence I don't hear.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Belongs to me and Deep Blue, it appears.
My only obstacle - the odd trash can
Placed in the bike lane - merely draws my sneers.
I'm warmly dressed and ride into the fog,
And crow along with Kurt Elling's best song
With fear of neither emo kid nor dog
To trip me up, whatever could go wrong?
I pedal happily, look 'round and sing
Right at the top of tired lungs with Kurt.
But mind the ice, Kate, on the streets - one thing
I can't dismiss. A wipe-out would sure hurt!
And just between us two, O reader mine,
Jaybiking 'gainst the traffic lights is fine!
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
A special month approaches - very fast.
My friends and I, oh such writing machines
Already, now prepare for that great blast
Of scribbling fury that's NaNoWriMo.
I have the germ of an idea in place
Thanks to a crazed white rabbit who with so
Small effort tossed it my way that my face
Just melted. Now I roar out: bring it on!
And hope that all of you will do so, too.
It's crazy and hard work but once it's gone
We have rare prizes, each: one bright, brand new,
If roughly written, novel, and the pride
Of finishing a project (somewhat fried).
Monday, October 12, 2009
Raindrops on Kittens
- An Experiment in Chronology and Method Comics Making by Paul Laroquod
- Escape Into Life - A Marvelous arts & culture webzine
- Field Notes - Made in the U.S.A.
- George Hrab - musician, blogger, podcaster, skeptic
- Heroes Only - My friendly local comics/games store
- Isoban's Journal - Illustrations, AudioBoos, Videos, More Geektastic Goodness Than You Can Handle
- National Public Radio - my source for almost everything
- Podiobooks - Awesome free audiobooks of all genres
- Posthuman Blues - A Feast of Forteanity & Futurism by Mac Tonnies
- The Goblin Market - A Podcast Novel by Jennifer Hudock
- The Invasion & The Zombie Chronicles - Innovative zombie fiction by James Melzer