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.
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