In Which I Eagerly Anticipate A Visit From @MarianCall

In two days time, we welcome Marian Call.

Her tour this year will hit all fifty states.

In Wyoming her stop is -- and I'm all

Excitement to announce this, O my mates! --

In Cheyenne. Heroes Only is the sole

Emporium of comics that will host

A concert on this tour. D'you find this droll?

A sweet chanteuse a-playing at what most

Would name geek central? Ah, but you've not heard

Her album, Got to Fly, then, I suspect.

Nerd-friendly? She is proud to claim that word

As epithet, or was last time I checked.

So come and join us on this Wednesday night.

You'll see this lady's future's firefly-bright!

SPOKEN SUNDAY: VILLANELLE: Recruitment And Its Perils

Sonneteer's Note: This is my first contribution to #SpokenSunday, for which I've chosen, perhaps insanely, to write villanelles. CLICK HERE FOR THE AUDIO VERSION.

"A hard, hard thing, the journey into space;

No matter how luxurious the ship.

There's hardships it is best just to embrace

Recycled air and food, and, for to chase

That down, there's water that has made the trip

Through all your shipmate's kidneys. You must face

These difficulties and much more. And brace

Your fragile self: in order to equip

Our voyage, ere we leave the rocket base,

We must examine you, verify race

And health." The poster read. Undaunted, Skip,

Adventurous and young, signed up to chase

His dreams among the stars, and by the grace

Of unknown gods, he won out, got his chip

(To pay for necessaries). How his face

Lit up; that is until he found in place

Of his small bed, a monster! In its grip

He writhed to no avail. Such was the case,

Of scrumptious Skip, of whom there's now no trace.

SONNET RANT: In Which Capitalists Are Rebuked When They Complain About Capitalism

Free enterprise, what makes this country great,
Say many, but there always comes a time
When jingoists and their ilk must partake
Of their own words, when they cry "it's a crime
That this guy's charging me so much for work
He's done for me today!" and when said day
Is one of rest, when he was home. That "jerk"
Is just as free as you to spend, his way,
His precious summer hours. And this July,
This Fourth, well it's a holiday for all.
Yes, your emergency sure sucks, but I
Don't see why that means that, when you must call
For help and interrupt another's fun
That he can't charge you more. That's freedom, son.

In Which A Childhood Fear Surfaces

It's taking me much courage e'en to look
Upon the photo I've put on this page;
Blame China Mieville for it; his new book
The Kraken, just so happened to engage
Me quickly in a quest again to see
What's haunted me since childhood. Lo! Behold:
Mesonychoteuthis hamiltoni
The merest thought makes my blood run so cold,
I'm eight again, in Wyoming, landlocked
But still quite sure this monster lurked below
My bedclothes, clacking beak, thoroughly stocked
With tentacles and after me. I know:
'Twas silly of me, out here, to believe
A giant squid could get me of an eve.

In Which Operation Healthy Backfires A Bit

No alcohol and almost no caffeine,
Lean protein and as little processed crap
As I can keep from eating; that's my scene
This summer. But I fell into a trap:
For also I get lots of exercise
From bike commuting, mowing my own lawn
With my reel mower, and, to my surprise,
I'm up to a round hundred push-ups; dawn
Will also see me doing crunches -- those
I'm almost to two-hundred of. I'm proud
To share this, but there is a price. This blows.
I drink a lot of water, as I'd vowed,
But too much protein and a lack of salt
Means that my dizzy spells were all my fault.

The Interstellar Feller: In Which The Sleeper Must Awaken

Sonneteer's note: this is the latest installment of an on-going sonnet serial, Pepito Mojito: The Interstellar Feller. New readers can get up to speed by clicking on the "Interstellar Feller" tag below to bring up all installments. Start at the bottom and read your way up to today's...

United in a hubub, cacogens
Both great and small inquire as to the source
Of this distress. Beamed pinpoint by a lens
That rosy ray of data is, of course
Instruction from Yectara's secret, cruel
And unknown lord. It is not aimed at her
This time, however, but upon her jewel,
Pepito. 'Tis his forehead in the blur!
His eyes, unclosed since he did chance to stare
Into the weird, kaleidoscopic hues
Of his odd captors planetside, now bear
A hint of sense; he blinks away the ooze
Of eyedrops, sits upright and sweeps away
His bedclothes. An extraordinary day!

In Which I Lament Something That Is Lacking In Summer 2010

July's begun, a time when many seek
Surcease from scorching in the cool and dark
Of friendly local cinemas. I weep,
Though, as I once again survey the stark
And hopeless offerings for these great screens
This season's bringing. This year, there's not one,
I care to see at all. Some say this means
I'm just too picky; no, I have some fun
At stupid 'splodey blockbusters, as long
As they have ought to recommend them save
A bloated budget. Is it just so wrong
To want a story with what goobers crave
(A lot of CGI, they guess). I rue
This year. I think I'll stick to Doctor Who.

In Which I Regret A Choice Somewhat

Outside the glare is fierce; a strong, dry breeze

Blows harsh across the asphalt and the grass

Is parched. Three-thirty; eighty-five degrees

And I can't get myself up off my ass.

My head aches just to look out windows, and

It's only June as yet. In some despair,

Remembering my thoughts, I understand:

I made the wrong choice back in April. There

Were still spots on the graveyard shift. I chose

These normal hours, must endure the heat

And dust both ways on my bike, unlike those

Who've made the cool of evening their beat.

Next summer, note to self; the wee small hours

Are kinder when one's of limited pow'rs.

In Which I Share A Revelation I've Had About A Famous Television Program

I'm only now beginning Season Three

Of this great program we know as The Wire,

But there is something that I've come to see

That has me anxious, e'en to say on fire

To share: this show's a science program; its

Main focus, ecological. We are

Observers of a complex war of wits

Twixt carnivores and herdsmen, with Omar

An apex predator if ever were

Such given human form. I am amazed

Just watching peaceful herbivores concur

With how they're managed by this pack of crazed

Back-biting human jackals, lions, or

Police and politicians, Baltimore!

G20: In Which Another Side's Story Is Considered

(Click here to view the original photo by Paul Laroquod

Behind the shields and masks, there still were folk
Who did not drool with eagerness to ply
That riot gear, who sought not to provoke
Nor terrorize the people who did eye
That gathering with distrust, ire or fear,
And exercised their right to say so when
G20 came to town. It's been a year
That's taught us all to rethink what has been
A default notion: our leaders are right
And those who might oppose them, simply mobs,
Unruly, dangerous, and on the fight.
Some of them are just real, working-class slobs
Whose job today put them in a phalanx
Arrayed against democracy. No thanks.

In Which I Share Some Folk Wisdom That Works

The best of all protection from the sun
And its most harmful ultraviolet rays,
Is long-sleeved shirts, high collars... that's no fun,
However, if, like most, you have a craze
To show off your well-turned and pasty limbs.
A miracle goop's on the market, though:
They call it sunscreen, which stuff at least dims
The angry red and blistering, you know.
Bar those, once burnt, one remedy remains,
On hand in ev'ry kitchen (one need not
Grow fancy plants or go to special pains
To buy some aloe vera gel); you've got
To splash some vinegar upon your burns.
The smell's not great; but oh, the sweet returns!

In Which I Am Doubly Powerless

South Africa's a strange place for to seek
Some comforting distraction from my cares,
But coasting toward the end of this crazed week,
That's where my thoughts have rested, and my stares
Have fixed upon. Today, Toronto boasts
A protest crowd of thousands, which contains
My Laroquod among the marching hosts.
He's safe, I know, but craziness there reigns.
So football's been my balm, despite our loss
To Ghana, whose Blackstars I like to cheer
When they're not playing us, at least. The gloss
Of this great tournament's not faded, clear?
But now I cannot help but spend the day
A-willing all the bad march stuff away.

In Which I Comment Discreetly On Something That Amuses Me

A certain new device is causing queues
Around the block in certain cities, e'en
Though it has certain problems -- that won't lose
It fanboys, though they know of these, I ween.
The lure of gadget-lust is strong, as they
Already know, for most of them succumbed
To iterations earlier. I say:
It does seem odd that more than two-thirds, numbed,
Perhaps to their old versions' fading charms
(I doubt a million of them just broke down
All at the same time) ran into the arms
Of their sharp produce-dealers in each town.
What now becomes of those forsaken toys
Abandoned for antenna-addled joys?

The Interstellar Feller: In Which An Interruption Occurs

Sonneteer's note: this is the latest installment of an on-going sonnet serial, Pepito Mojito: The Interstellar Feller. New readers can get up to speed by clicking on the "Interstellar Feller" tag below to bring up all installments. Start at the bottom and read your way up to today's...

Flat-footed isn't quite how I'd describe
The manner in which our fine crew is caught.
Flagrante, like a wild Bonobo tribe,
Is more the truth. Not one of them has fought
A certain urge. The ship is humid, rank
And busy; no one notices the drone
That sidles up alongside, fires a beam
Bright pink in hue. Its target is unknown
Since no one's looking, but we wouldn't dream
It's aimed at any but Yectara, who
Stops in mid-stroke and screams "No, master! No!"
"How did he find us?" soon inquires the crew,
Re-donning garments, guilty, on the go,
And rushing for to check, all ire dispelled
By their concern for she who's lately yelled.

In Which I Try A Little Alchemy On A Bad Day

Some days start off so kind, one should suspect,
Immediately -- one's being softened up
For something awful. Where the disconnect
Occurred, I cannot tell, but in my gut
I'm sure it's all my fault. How tempers flare
When summer sets in well, how anger boils
At tiny things, and not one bloke can spare
A moment just to think. In such ways spoils
What could be quite a lovely afternoon.
But when things go wrong, of course one must fight,
Or be thought less than manly. Faugh! It's June.
You're right; I'm wrong and will be 'til tonight
When I get to unplug and pedal home,
While you will still be you, where'er you roam.