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.
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