Friday, December 31, 2010
White holidays are back, and so begins
The long and messy slog back to the sun.
This last day of the year blasts off our skins
With bitter winds and cold. There's little fun
To be had out-of-doors tonight: streets of ice
Assure nothing but falls and crashes -- yet
I'm sure there's plenty whose pursuit of vice
And silliness will lead them out. I'll let
Them have my fun. It's home for me and mine;
Tomorrow's just another work-day. You
Who venture forth, do hoist a glass of wine
On my behalf, and I'll think of you, too,
Especially my far-flung loves. Someday
I hope to pass these times with you, some way.
His steely hand disgustingly adrip,
His message from Bananta quite received
Pepito turns attention from his ship
To all of those whom cruelly he deceived
To reach this point. "I do assure you," he
Begins to say "I had no idea this
Would be the outcome, when, poor helpless me
Was brought aboard with just a sigh, a kiss
From that bewitching woman we all mourn.
We mourn her, don't we? You're not mourning. Weep!
Weep, wastrels, rascals! Rue the day was born
Your sorry selves!" Then there comes a beep,
And all aboard convulse in pain. "Uh, sir,"
Says one. "This message seems to be from... her!"
Sunday, December 26, 2010
(At least for me), though I tend to eschew
Those resolution-things (each a pipe-dream
At best; at worst something that, when you fail to do
What they prescribe, you'll feel a failure for
Just acting like yourself). I need to end
A bad behavior, though, but think I'll score
More points in the success column instead
If I just pose a challenge: just how long
Can I go without doing what I ought
To cut back on severely? Just how strong
Can I be on a daily basis? Fraught
With tension this still is, but I do best
When it's a game, or just a tiny test.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
As Mark got ev'ry Beowulf there was
Except the Seamus Heaney. Photographed
There with my friends in my red dress, the buzz
Of being new-elected still had me
Bewildered at my fugure. That was eight
Weird years ago. At other times I see
Through watery eyes -- for it was once my fate
Allergic to the hay, to still take rides
Upon a wagon, stacked with it, through town
To look at lights, sip cocoa, at the sidea
Of childhood sweethearts. Weird what circles 'round
In memory, on holidays. This time
I'm just at work, but these are all still mine.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Lo! Suddenly, there cometh from afar
A most unlikely sight indeed, to wit:
A Dan O'Bannon spaceship Chevy car,
Its driver helmeted and in full kit.
Its load of fruit looks unspoiled, luscious, ripe
And quite delicious. Soon a tractor beam
Shoots from the Grokulator. "So what type
Of goodies have you for us?" There's a gleam
In Pepi's eye as he inquires; the stores
On board are running low. Bananta strides
Across the flight deck, takes in all the scores
Of cacogens enslaved, but won't take sides,
Except to offer one small handful to
Pepito: Rotten pomegranate. Ew!
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
(That happens in December), when the man
We call FiendMaster comes to, come what may
A birthday he'd avoid if e'er he can
(Though I found it unscary)? This guy writes
Foul stories, demonizing ice cream men
And most beloved muppets. Now his sights
Are set on unknown, new, bad vistas. When
He told me weeks ago that 40 loomed
And that his liver lillied, how could I
Not mock his cowardice? Yes, Paul, you're doomed.
We all are aging. These years do fly by.
Now quit your whining and write some more tales.
Your Fiendlings don't like waiting. Trim those sails!
Some Christmas cookies? It's hard to resist
The impulse to get out the gear and take
A little time. How else would they exist,
These goodies that make holidays so sweet?
The Gonzalexx 3000, being one
Who likes, as much as anyone, a treat
Thought he'd surprise his family. Once done
What robot worth his bolts would let them try
His offering without a little test
For quality and safety? This lil' guy
Sure isn't such; he'll only give the best!
And so, from Jose Gonzales and me,
We hope your holiday's sweet as can be!
Monday, December 20, 2010
Oh noes! Just how much darkness can we take?
We surely all shall perish from sheer fright
(Those of us whom the Great Old Ones don't bake
Into big pies for Festivus). As for
My part, a huge and blood-red, sky-borne orb
Seems emblematic of my mood. I'm sore
Of heart and mind - there's too much to absorb:
These holidays are stupid, crass and dull.
I'm longing for real winter, cold and long
And thoughtful; I appreciate the lull.
My pull towards winter I find just as strong
As e'er it was. 'Til then, I nod and sigh
And watch the silly season plod on by.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
How did this come to pass? Into whose hands
Did who, exactly, play, to make this so?
How is it a cabana boy's commands
Are wordlessly obeyed by all who know
His presence? Who sent forth the pinkish beam
That swayed Yectara's plans for him at first?
'Twixt genocidal cocktails and a dream
Turned nightmare, must we e'er suspect the worst
Of our Pepito now? An evil laugh
That chills the blood (or coolant) has replaced
The throaty and inviting "hey" the staff
And guests at that resort enjoyed. Disgraced?
Far from it! Pepi now has in his sights
The galaxy entire it seems. Such fights!
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
But just today, that seems like quite a lot.
I wound up staying up too late last night
For no good reason, later than I ought
At anytime; but graveyard work before
Has discombulated me entire.
Today was just a waste; I feel the score
Is Wednesday ten, Kate zero. I'm no liar:
A sonnet is not something that I want
To do right now, but habits do die hard
And though naught happened that I'd care to vaunt
Iambically, it's what I do. So here: this empty shard
Of poesy, a placeholder. I do
Apologize, but that's the state that's true.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
And cash -- but in the offing there's much good.
I've helped a good friend stride towards her dream
And cross my fingers for her, as I should.
My team-ups all go well, and solo work
Proceeds apace; my job is steady and
A rare security is mine -- a quirk
That almost seems obsence as, crossed the land
So many languish. I do all I may
To help, but mostly it's nowhere enough.
I know I'm not alone in trying -- hey,
This ain't the first time that times have been tough!
It's easy to lose hope this time of year,
But chances unknown may be very near.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Two years of sonnetizing; I shall reach
A thousand ere the year is done. Is that
Enough? Has this grown stale? Do I not leach
Some value with high quantities? I'm at
A point where 'tis an automatic thing
To write a sonnet. People photograph
Me doing so quite on the fly; I fling
Them forth in movie lines, just for a laugh
Or sometimes scribble them out over drinks.
In truth it's become something of a stunt,
And other pastures beckon now, methinks.
So: shall I follow where I'm led, or, blunt
And hack-like, cling to this well-mastered form?
Tell me, dear readers, d'you prefer the norm?
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Turned out as well as anyone could hope.
When needed, I stood up and took the call,
Did what was needed, managed, then, to cope
As is my wont. I only fall apart
When crisis moments are well in the past --
A handy trait, but how it breaks my heart
When things are calm and I feel it at last.
Today the one I helped is back and I
Spoke to him for the first time, businesslike
And distant, as required, but, though I try,
To stop it, the adrenaline does spike,
I choke on tears and four months disappear.
It's like it's happening right now and here.
Friday, December 10, 2010
He cannot follow, but it's time he, too,
Broke orbit 'round the planet where all changed.
Quodlaro, pillbug tight, is living through
A special kind of hell, slightly deranged
With horror at what's happened on the ship
Where he has served these aeons beyond count.
He watches Grokulator quickly slip
Into dimensions he'll never surmount.
His trip to marshal oppositioin shall
Be very long and slow, but must succeed!
Upon this cacogen, all the morale
And hope of this whole universe, indeed,
Depends. He vomits forth his final meal
For its propulsion (no, it's not ideal).
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Monday, December 6, 2010
Complexities exceed my grasp when down
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
One shrouder is escaped, but there is more
That claims this new Dark Lord's attention. "Set
Our course for Halcyon; I have a score
To settle there," Pepito bellows. Let
It here be noted that his face now bears
Resemblance to the greatest evil to
E'er dominate the cosmos, one that scares
E'en as it thrills beholders 'mongst the crew
Who'd grown up hearing tales of horrors past:
"Be good or else he'll come again!" The dread
Is evident upon each face. At last
The Grokulator breaks its orbit, dead
No more, and all is left behind
And none can guess what goes on in that mind.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
You think the Master is a scary foe
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Then say it not at all (I paraphrase
Of course). Would that this very good advice
Had just been heeded -- no need now to raise
The kind of fuss we've seen this week. Oh please!
Most schoolkids know it's better not to pass
Those catty notes lest any teacher seize
The evidence and read them for the class
To jeer at or get mad about. It's fools
Who think no one will ever know their deeds
In army life, in embassies or schools;
Likewise those whose dark plans or evil screeds
Depend on staying secret. Lesson learned?
I doubt it. Better just to look concerned.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Just overwhelms me, even when it's not
Thanksgiving. 'Twas my Grandpa's time to cheer
And celebrate his natal day. That got
The rest its start; my parents married on
That day, then some years later, Sister Kris
Was born, and stole the hearts of all. Jack's gone,
My grandfather, but there's no time to miss
Him when there's so much yet to celebrate!
Two writing friends of mine have birthdays, too,
Today. Last year I set myself a great
And noble task, a sonnet for each. Phew!
This year, tired from Thanksgiving, I use one
To hail them all and send my love, ere done.
Friday, November 26, 2010
The Grokulator, once a merry ship
Is now a horror: all its crew save one
Slaved to its systems. Its eternal trip
Across the galaxy, unless undone
By unforseen occurrence, shall proceed
According to a tyrant's wishes. Yet
One has escaped: a Quodlaro was freed
Soon after it was pierced. Shaking and wet,
Rejected, it would seem, this one curls tight
Into a shell or capsule and drifts from
The bridge while Pepi roars into the night.
It passes a companion, sad and dumb
Who nonetheless is able to discharge
One task: Quodlaro's now among the stars.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
The turkey's roasting in the oven; soon
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Is what we're told, but seems to me the threat
Is more from our own overlords. Roll back
To feudal days; we shall be chattel yet!
A naked body scan or grope-down, just
Because one used his underpants last year
To fail to bomb a flight? There really must
Be nowhere that they'll stop to keep the fear
Alive and keep us feeling as bovine
As possible. Soon we'll fly in the nude
And have no baggage. We'll be told it's fine,
That clothiers in airports, wise and shrewd
Can sell us TSA-approved duds at
Our destinations, and that will be that!
Saturday, November 20, 2010
It almost didn't happen, but we got
Friday, November 19, 2010
And healthy, which is why we redesigned
The Death Star, but we sort of did it wrong:
It's planet killers currently have mined
For turnips solely -- and, as we all know
It's rutabegas that Stormtroopers crave,
That make them smile, that make their helmets glow,
But as Mike pointed out, we still can save
Our efforts to a small degree. Retune
Those mighty cannons, calibrate those guns!
It's ne'er too late to try, this lovely June
No wait, is it November? Call my sons --
And tell them to come back. Ackbar was right!
It is a trap. Turnips again tonight!
Keen out their recognition, "Master we
Knew not that it was you we'd rescued." Tens
Then still more of the crewmen try to flee.
Pepito simply laughs and says "Begin."
At this command, the Grokulator's walls
Erupt as wires and cables snake and pin
Each shipmate in his place, then snare and haul
Them close in. Now Pepito's former screams
Are nothing when compared to those of these,
His slaves, as each one's fused now into teams
With one another and the ship. Their pleas
For mercy are ignored. The consoles and
The crewmen are as one by His command.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
What I would merely chill, and then it tends
To make such noise -- sometimes it's just a wheeze,
Sometimes a rumble -- that most of my friends
Say they can hear it on my podcasts (yes,
At present I record them sitting at
My kitchen table). Icemakers you'd bless
When hooked up to the plumbing aren't all that
When they just run on nothing. It must go,
And soon it will. Tomorrow, around lunch
Some nice young men in clean blue suits will show
And cart off my old fridge. Till then, the cruch
Is clearing out the present one before
They come. It's mostly condiments, so score!
Monday, November 15, 2010
There still are games I haven't played, but that
Won't stop me rating what I did. Some bland,
Some very near unplayable (Oh, drat!),
And some that started strong but finished poor -
These I shall not call out here, but of those
I've played and liked, I'd say there's three or four
Which stand out. Some have had scenarios
Beyond inventive; others made me laugh;
Still others challenged, in the best of ways,
My faculties. While there's a bit more chaff
Than I'd expected (I'm new to this craze),
That makes the good ones shine.
Now one more game with Paul, then vote by nine!
Sunday, November 14, 2010
A lovely face, done up in graceful lines,
A sonnet where the poet bares her soul...
Through these something of what is inside shines
But even so, they're under tight control,
Expressions such as these. Transparency
In art is just a myth. Deep in those eyes
Sketched in with charcoal, much we do not see
Remains unknown. Though naked, the disguise
That is its surface hides from us what true,
Intriguing secrets might be there beneath
Its calm. There's always tension between you
Who apprehend, and those who do bequeath
Such work to future ages. You may think
You know what's going on, but we just wink.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Tuaca, beverage of failed pimps
And DragonCan'ts. Oh, how I long to see
What orange-flavored hijinks all these imps
I call my friends might now engage in. Ware,
P.G., and Phil, and Brand, and Kim, and, yes
Miss Christiana, Val and Laura, there
And Starla, Patrick, Dave, Paulette (I guess
They had to let in Paul or else he'd sic
His bunny slippers on them), also Chooch
And Viv! TuacaCon is no mean trick
To pull off. Throw in Sigler and (O, smooch!)
As virtual events go, count me in
As soon as I get off work, for the win!
Friday, November 12, 2010
Or rather Great Old Ones. Witness this guy,
Cthulhu, who, if we're to trust the themes
Of his vast media presence, still is spry
And waiting in his city 'neath the waves
As he has been since ere life stirred upon
This damp old rock. Someday we'll be its slaves
(Or worse), if all the cultists who have gone
Insane on his behalf achieve their ends.
These console games and books of smut both are
Great starts that way, created by my friends.
So mark my words: this thing will be a star,
This Great Cthulhu fad; man, it's got legs!
I say we drink it up, down to the dregs.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
Myself and freedom, and there's much to lure
Me out of here this Mridray: there's my keen
And burning lust for comics (yes, my pure
Delight in that crossover, Hellboy and
Those Beasts of Burden, has caused me to seek
Back issues of the latter), and -- how grand! --
My co-author has come through with a squeak
And zapped me chapter two of what we hope
Shall be a great weird western novel (I
Can't have a gander now though, because, nope,
My use of beta software wouldn't fly
Here at the day gig). And there's work to do
On my days off, oh yes. Oh, fly, Time, shoo!
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Saturday, November 6, 2010
For what is mine but is far out of reach
Just now. As I sit here within a throng
I find that I would gladly trade off each
Of them for one I choose instead: one guy.
I shouldn't sulk so that I cannot look
To one side, see a smile and catch an eye
That's sharing my amusement. Once I took
All that for granted, for a few weeks, there
In a far city; it was easy, felt
Like it had always been so. Now, I swear,
It feels sometimes like just a dream. I'm dealt
Such diff'rent hands at home, but well I know
I'm lucky to have someone I miss so.
Friday, November 5, 2010
And Clifford Irving, just like Orson Welles
Can never fale to make me smile. It's queer,
My fondness for a forger. Now my bells
Are chiming once again; in Germany
A brazen couple seems to have made fools
Of many auction houses, experts we
Let natter on about breaking the rules
Of form and color, loving to extol
Exemplary and striking qualities
They've just made up. I find it all quite droll,
How art is only art when someone sees
Just what they want to in it and declares
Astounding values on a faker's wares.
"Her purpose is achieved at last," proclaims
Pepito when the fusion is complete.
His voice is deep and cruel; he calls the names
Of each remaining crew-group. "Now you'll meet
A just reward." The cacogens recoil:
E'en Tribruno, brave warrior, grows pale.
Pepito, now no longer just the foil
Of lonely cyborg pirates -- for the scale
Of transformation here is vast, severe
And stunning -- floats before them, a new man.
The beauty that entranced them would appear
To be eradicated; all that can
Be seen of it is scarred and riddled by
Plugs, grafts and circuitry - and he can fly.
Rage now. Unlike Achilles', his is cold,
Pepito's. His dark eyes take in the scene
Then fall upon the form which he does hold
Tight in his arms, his lifeless lady queen.
Removing her scant clothes, he reaches deep
Within her torso -- up past his elbows.
His eyes close, breathing slows, but it's not sleep
In which he sinks. His erstwhile lover glows
And Pepi shudders: fiber optics crawl
Across, then penetrate his skin, and soon
He's fused with all her cyberware -- and all
Beholding this cry out. The two commune,
The living and the dead, as bone and vein
Now pulse and glow in time with screams of pain.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Must be the hot springs. Sulfurous of reek
But wonderful to soak in and just rest
A tired body, and to gaily speak
With friends both old and new; truly this place,
The Hobo Pool in Saratoga holds
A source for peace, extraordinary grace --
And yes, great clumps of algae, floating molds
And possibly unknown extremophiles.
Jump in and nearly boil, then go across
To where the river burbles past, all smiles
And chilly ripples: dip in, rinse the moss
From off yourself, then back into the pot
Of min'ral water, gloriously hot.
And I was driving straight into the sun.
My windshield's imperfections made a spray
Of glare that 'twas opaque. I slowed our run
To just a crawl. 'Tis what I dread the most:
To have to drive at highway speeds when I
Can't see a thing; delinator posts
And faded striping slowly crawling by
As though it were a blizzard late at night.
The world shrank down to squeeze in on my car,
And ev'ry forward mile a sep'rate fight
Until I knew no longer just how far
Or near the next town was. Lost, there, in space
I struggled not to curse that lonely place.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Two years have passed since my last victory
And I'm still editing -- and though my path
Is quite atypical, I still don't see
The benefit of yet more high-speed crap,
Which is what I produce this time of year
When I join NaNoWrimo. I'll still clap
For all my friends who do so, sip a beer
Whene'er you post new word counts (that's unless
I'm at my day gig, naturally). It
Is quite a fine thing, proving that you can
Write an entire novel, that you're fit
To keep on doing so. Ah, but for me
It's time to make what I've done fit to see.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
To pass them to one's offspring just seems worse.
But somehow, Monarch butterflies who've had
Ophryocystis bugs just know to nurse
Their caterpillars, in a fashion, by
A-laying their eggs on a milkweed type
That makes cardenolides that help to fight
The protozoans. When those eggs are ripe
And hatch, the larvae get their medicine
With ev'ry meal - and yes, it's proven, too,
That butterflies who simply haven't been
Afflicted don't do what the sick ones do.
We're not the only ones, then, who do drugs.
In this we are no diff'rent from the bugs!
Friday, October 29, 2010
My eyes don't recognize the dumb mistakes
I've made while typing? I'll buy that as, stiff
Or nimble, fly my digits. My mind quakes
Whene'er I think of how those fingers know
What letter's where on QWERTY's dumb array,
How, just as long as they start on home row
They get it right (unless Mind finds a way
To interfere). I'm like the centipede
Of fables cognitive; please do not ask
How I can do this work when there's a need;
'Tis best that I have farmed out this dull task
To a more autonomic-type regime.
My brain's not always smartest; this I deem.
"Where's Droze," demandeth Pepi as, confused
A smallish crowd surrounds him. They ask "Who?"
"The captain," snaps one whom no one is used
To calling Sir; a nuisance at best to
The Grokulator's crew. Somehow, though, all
Look to him as their leader now, and blink,
Uncomprehending, at him as they scrawl
And sign and gesture, trying hard to think
Of whom their leader speaks. "We know no Droze,"
The Tribrunos at last call out as one.
"He stood right there; he helped you strike the blows
That killed our queen." They shrug in unison,
These cacogens, perplexed. Their captain's gone
And lost his mind, it seems. They'll carry on.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
A journey to an alternate world can
Monday, October 25, 2010
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Great poetry today. Each time I sneeze
My brain clears out; my thoughts all disconnect
And usually I bite my cheek. Oh please,
Won't my Prince Nyquil come and save me? So,
Like I just said, sub-par's the standard for
Today. I just don't want inflated hope
To taint this offering. In days of yore
I've scaled poetic heights, but I don't think
I'll climb much higher, just now, than my couch
From which I lie and sniffle and I drink
My tea, and wait for that next burst of -- ouch!
Don't bless me, though; just pass another box
Of tissues while I pull on warmer socks.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Saturday, October 23, 2010
The redo of your trial. Meanwhile one who
Seeks office, we're sure, thinks that this is great,
His mayoral ambitions safe. "So phew,
Green Putty! Pridsummer," quoth Rahm Grunthos.
Perhaps, though, it is we whose vast relief
Should here be celebrated. 'Twould be gross
Were both of them in court. I'd share the grief
Of those poor Pralites on Rod's jury, forced
To listen to such duets as they'd share.
'Twould harm Rahm Grunthos' chances, though, of course
Were he compelled to go and recite there
Such lines as might defend his Vogon pal.
Shall his intenstine intervene? It shall!
Friday, October 22, 2010
Soon I'd be able, if I chose, to lend
Ebooks to other users (but not give!).
That fond tradition, sharing with a friend
May yet survive, attenuated though
It is. But while my pal enjoys, I can't
(Supposedly, but pirates always go
For bait like this, don't they? But no, we shan't
Cry piracy when sharing what we've bought,
Unless we're cretins), not for fourteen days
Until the lending time is up. This ought
To please me, I suppose, but I just blaze
With great annoyance: artificial brakes
On natural behavior? More mistakes.
The crew consists, quite soon, only of those
Whose lives were never owed to the old bat,
The rusted cyborg lady. Tribrunos
And Vuhls abound -- there is no fear of that!
Quodlaros, too, and one Pepito, who
Is freaking out quite badly. Why just one?
Last time the weird effect of travel through
The blobs of time and space (that to outrun
Aggressors in his home system), the range
Of Pepis was as vast as others; now
He floats, mute and alone. It's passing strange
More so when he draws up and makes this vow:
"Yectara's death shall be avenged in spades."
It's more than Pepi's said in long decades.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
I wish I did not have, I often wish
You'd find another boon companion, end
Our bondage to each other. Sorry-ish.
I know this is, for you, a poor reward
For sticking to me like this, but until
The power of our partnership is stored
And harnessed (it could light and heat, fulfill
A city's power needs entire), what good
Are we a-doing anyone? It's not
A source, even, of comedy as would
A proper duo be, in which a spot
Of muffing lightens up the mood. Instead
We simply make me wish me still in bed.
Into it now, I see a new world, filled
With people and ideas that help me steer
My thoughts away from sorrow, and rebuild
This life of mine. My awe at what I've found
Within that absence cannot be expressed
Except imperfectly. And though the sound
Of that dear voice still echoes, I can wrest
Myself from sadness, knowing what we'll make --
In part to honour him, in part to show
Who we are whom he touched, who cannot shake
His influence and would not -- how I glow!
The possibilities are just as wide
As they were when we had him at our side.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
More than a little literary flair.
Gigantomania soon had me caught
Within the gears of Stalinism. There,
I played first as a farmer, then a brute
Stuck making steel, a Politboro type,
And Stalin at the last -- as his acute
And incoherent madness came to light
Amidst a chess game, I soon grew annoyed
(Not just because I couldn't interact
In meaningful ways). Till then, I'd enjoyed
The bleakness and dilemmas, and, in fact
I praise it for these, though I'm sure my friends
Went into it for somewhat diff'rent ends.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
As this and this proclaim. You needn't pay;
That's not our ethos. But, within the source
Please keep this license there, intact. That way
All credit goes where credit needs to be
For its creation (if binary's your pick,
This rule applies there, too). And if you see
A bug or two, remember not to sic
Your goons on he who wrote it; that is not
Within the spirit of a GPL.
And please, recall that just because you've got
An author's code within your stuff, that's well
And good, but don't imply endorsement when
You tell 'em where it's from or where it's been.
Friday, October 15, 2010
As I begin to teach myself a new
Computer language. I have plans to write
Some games in it, in hopes that someday you
Will play them. There's still ought to be desired:
This seventh version of Inform still leans
Toward the second person - it's still mired,
The IF tribe, in dogma that the means
Toward player immersion's in address;
The player must be "you." The disconnect
This generates is unnoticed, I guess,
By those who've long been members of this sect,
Accustomed to its foibles. I, though, move
That Paul and have something, now, to prove.
"Who called for Field Maneuver Three?" one cries,
For suddenly the deck is crowded, as
Vast multiples of each appears and tries
To occupy the same space. Something has
Gone very wrong. Quodlaros get it first.
"The old hag was Yectara, too, and all
She's done now cannot be! This is the worst
Of outcomes for us. Hurry, we must call
For help. We cannot handle this alone."
"Alone?" say Tribrunos, "We're hardly that!"
And one fights off the others as each clone --
Though that is a misnomer -- this combat
Comes to a draw, of course. Meanwhile, elsewhere
Upon the deck, some types become quite rare.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Roast up some garlic (to do that, just wrap
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Monday, October 11, 2010
The many ways you're wrong are more than might
Fit in a sonnet. What I'm tasked to do
Here, though, makes me consider, in a flight
Of fancy, one of your kind. That: the spork
(If one in silver or in stainless steel
Has e'er been made, I know it not): a fork
That bears a bowl as well, the weal,
To stab something and scoop, too, gravy (if
Such is what you desire). Still would it break
If tasked with more than popcorn weight, I fear;
But as the butt of jokes there's few as make
So good a one as this; the very word
Provokes such peals of giggles. It's absurd!
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Should be sent to the corner, but instead
You both continue with your childish bids
To capture my attention. Neither red
Nor blue am I, and this is largely 'cause
You neither of you come a wee bit close
To doing what you've said (to much applause),
And both of you should take a giant dose
Of STFU juice. And yet, I know
That nothing I say here or elsewhere will
Suspend or even slow the endless flow
Of histrionic emails. They won't kill
America, your foes across the aisle,
Without your help. I'll vote, but I won't smile.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
One's co-workers for company -- these men
Should all get hired by NASA (it's a must
To tolerate conditions like these, when
A-traveling through space). Today a drill
At last has reached them, way down in their hole.
It's been a mighty effort: time and will
On both ends of the shaft, spent towards this goal
At last met some success. When first I learned
That this had happened, when we thought they had
A mere two days to live, my stomach churned;
I sank into the dark with them, so mad
And worried that this tale would end in death,
I watch now with you all and hold my breath.
Friday, October 8, 2010
And I'm a serious Marx Brothers fan,
So, though it's got a most unwieldy name
For sonnetizing, I will say the span
Of time spent playing passes pleasantly
As one goes forth to stir up discontent
Amongst the masses (Played in company
Such as I had, it's even better), meant
To choose Red over other hues, one finds
A to-do list of challenges, each one
To win the people's hearts and sometimes minds.
The toys you get to use are lots of fun,
And though it's communism you must spread,
You're forcing Groucho quoting in its stead.
A shockwave -- this is not a metaphor! --
Spreads through the Grokulator's bridge as each
Stunned denizen thereof now sees the score:
Much more has happened due to one key breach
Of shipboard discipline. Yectara's death
Has caused strange ripples and appearances,
And something like explosions, too. As breath
Did leave her body (as the poet says
Though she's not breathed in decades), someone who
Has e'er been by her side, the Ancient, fades
And all the scene around her ripples. Two
Of those nearby her cry out, as if blades
Had rent their flesh. Then suddenly most there
On board that ship see treble, blankly stare.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Monday, October 4, 2010
Then really it is not, quoth Pollan, and
I find this valid, though it's sometimes rude
To point it out. Today though, through the land
(Of Internet if not America)
Comes forth this tidbit: Chicken's only meat
If it all comes from one bird, which, no duh
But somehow many think it's fine and sweet
When it's extruded like soft serve, all smooth
And pink, and shaped at will, containing bits
We'd never eat, from many birds. I'll soothe
You not at all; this stuff just gives me fits.
It's why I don't go dining with a bird
Or other critter, sans the farmer's word.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Friday, October 1, 2010
Thursday, September 30, 2010
A planet that can hold on to its air
And might have liquid water. While this rocks --
No doubt about that -- we must have a care:
This doesn't mean there's life, or that we'll talk
To beings living there soon (and indeed
Those rumors 'bout the Datuk we must knock
As groundless). I know some, with undue speed
Have jumped to such conclusions in the press.
While Glise 581g looks just right
'Twill be some time yet ere we make a guess
As to life's presence 'round that red dwarf. Might
We have some neighbors? Maybe. But I find
Another home for us is on my mind.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
The toppling of so great a thing must make
Monday, September 27, 2010
Whene'er first contact's made, we've had a gap
In need of closing. Worry not! For that
August and needful body (shut your yap;
They have their uses) in New York we call
United Nations hath now chosen one
Datuk Professor Mazlan Othman (all
A Datuk is, is one her king has done
The honor of so naming; chivalry
Is still there in Malaysia) for to serve
As all our spokesdame. I am sure that she
Will do just fine, as long as she's the nerve
To wait while xenolinguists try to fish
Some sense out of some unknown gibberish.
It's dark, but there is moonlight, so I can
See what's ahead somewhat, be it small beast
Or bungie cord in my path, or a man
In shadows and dark clothes, walking his pet
(His ipod means he still can't hear my bell,
So he's the greatest hazard) -- though I get
The Greenway to myself, mostly. The smell
Of rotting leaves, the tick of them in wind
That still is warm and gentle, my escort.
Soon I'll be struggling to stay disciplined
Enough to fight it, and the snow, contort
My face into a grimace, pedaling,
But now I just enjoy. It's long 'til spring.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
With it a shortened link, and Twitter then
Became an IQ test, though somewhat queered
By curiosity, as shown off when
It spawned a tweet in your stream that announced
Your fondness for some outre naughtiness
(This is a fam'ly sonnet; won't be trounced
By those, censorious, who call for less
And more attenuated smut; I'll not
Quote what these said here). Few of you did fall
For its allure, but many mocked it. Got
To say, though, no Stuxnet jokes? Sigh. I'll call
You on one thing, though, O my silly birds:
If thus you tweeted, better change passwords.
To write and post a sonnet yesterday.
Somehow I got home and, I guess, I thought
I'd written one at work. I cannot say
How much this disappoints me, when, as well
My readers know, I've gone to lengths beyond
What any normal poet would to tell
A story, share a thought or news, a fond
And friendly greeting. Something always comes
To lend me inspiration. Once I could
Rely on friends to nag me when I'm late
A-posting, but that never was a good,
Effective way to keep me to my vow.
I'm sad and kind of desolate right now.
Friday, September 24, 2010
The woman who approached and did lay bare
Her buttocks (and indeed, she bared them both
To the propeller, spinning, with no care
Except that she would not die, per her Lord).
Was this a suicide? If so it failed
(Except in scaring those poor folk aboard
The plane!). O David Malki, I must know
What prompted you to seek this story out?
What Wonders in your comic will you show
Inspired by this weird tale? We all do shout
Together with you, 'tis a weird report.
Propeller plunging's now the latest sport?
Strikes first her erstwhile champ'ion; TriBruno
Brings forth a vibro-knife and plunges deep
(Or tries; Yectara's metal form doth slow
The fiercest blade; his glances off; dirt cheap,
Though, it is not). The screech induces pain
In all who hear it. Next Droze tries to slash
Yectara's throat. He fails to nick a vein,
But coolant gushes. Soon there is a flash
Of heat and light; a meltdown now occurs!
Quodlaro, Doctor Vuhl and others must
Restrain Pepito, whose cries now match hers
As she heats up and dies. No more does lust
Or longing stir at this, their lady's voice.
And now they all must live with this, their choice.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Though far from there, the city I love most-
But in the early morning, I must hie
Me through the dark and chilliness we boast
As Autumn in Cheyenne (it's winter in
All but the name). Deep Blue must carry me
Through shadows to my day gig through the thin
And frosty pre-dawn air. 'Tis time to see
Where all my turtlenecks have got to, find
My Doctor-Who length scarf, and goggles, too,
That I might don the former and might wind
The latter 'round my neck and torso. You
Might find these preparations odd, but rest
Assured that it's all really for the best.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
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