BONUS SONNET: In Which I Wish Nightwyrm A Happy Birthday

Oh hai, Cthul-who! Rory's not insane,

Though doodles he has done might contradict.

I heart him more than Brett, more than Jemaine.

I do not now remember when we clicked

On Twitter now, but glad I am I did!

Now comes today, time for his sonnet-spank.

'Tis his birthday; this fact cannot be hid.

Bend over dear, and take it. You will thank

Me later, I am sure. Thanks for the blips,

The drawings and the just-plain-crazy links.

Were I down there I'd kiss you on your lips

But blowing one will have to do, methinks.

Here's hoping that the whiskey slightly burns

And of the day come many great returns!

BONUS SONNET DARE: Jiminy The (Chocolate-Covered?) Flightless Vomiting Cricket

Sometimes there really is no stopping me,
Inspired by a cricket as I am.
And what a cricket: blood and guts and squee!
(That last is me, though I suppose it can
Make noises like that if it likes). This one,
Acanthoplus discoidalis cannot
Fly off or fight too well, yet has a fun
And fabulous defense when it is caught:
It bleeds green nasty goo, then vomits all
Its last meal so the lizard spits it out!
If other lizards see this wherewithal
They leave the bug alone. Let's give a shout!
For, e'en if it were chocolate-coated, it
Would be a poor hors d'œuvre, you must admit.

SONNET DARE: In Which I Ponder Bugs Literal And Metaphorical

I have been dared to look deep down inside,
Engage in navel-gazing, by my friend,
Ol' Ommus, who it seems could not abide
That I should write 'bout puking bugs; forfend!
Instead a diff'rent bug is on our minds:
The comics bug, which bites and then takes hold
Until no matter where one looks one finds
A item, figure, notion new or old
That just might make a comic. It's true though
That as my dear friend Walter doth point out
Not ev'ry story needs that treatment, so
It must be a discerning bug. Hold out
I do for tales whose vivid imagery
Demands both words and pictures. That's for me!

BONUS BONUS SONNET: In Which I Celebrate Noisily With Nicole

Nicole Gugliucci, you are so much fun

To tweet with and geek out and color blue

The jargon of your trade; you are the one

I think of first when my mind wanders to

How black holes might be misconstrued or if

Flamsteed got lonely late at night. Then there's

Your cuteness with your geeky boyfriend, Tim,

Whose geekhenge grows and obviously cares

About the same stuff we do. I'd keep him

Were I you. How I hope someday we'll meet

And have a chance to swap strange tales and drinks

And recipes and things. It will be sweet

And possibly quite dangerous, methinks.

Until then, Happy Birthday and accept

My admiration, written while you slept.

BONUS SONNET: Yay, We're Skeptics, But Must We Be Jerks About It?

While I do think the world is cool enough,

That what we can observe and test is great,

Increasing knowledge carefully, one tough

Test, then another over time, I'd hate

To be like those who once did roundly mock

Copernicus or Galileo, or

Columbus. E pur si mueve. What shock

Occurs when someone does discover more.

Of course I raise an eyebrow at such claims

That visitors from other systems come

To probe or warn us; still I don't play games,

Don't bait believers, will not call them dumb.

It's true there are some cracked pots on that shelf

But I've found some who aren't. How 'bout yourself?

In Which I Indulge My Dork-adence

My chores are done, though there is more to do

(There always is, no?) and as this cool day

Is my last off for this week, I eschew

More toil and opt instead to go and lay

In my yard swing and relax, drink and read.

I've pomegranate tea and Richard Holmes'

The Age of Wonder. Envy me indeed!

I've liberty to dream as my mind roams

Across the stars and seas alongside such

As Joseph Banks and Herschel, Mungo Park

And Humphrey Davy. I enjoy so much

These chances just to read 'til it gets dark.

And once the sun is down I've still the hope

Of stargazing with my small telescope.

In Which I Can't Wait To See A Comic And Start Getting Antsy

I love my comics store in old Cheyenne,
Called Heroes Only; it deserves the name.

No matter how great they are, all they can

Do for me now is pat my head, for shame.

O Diamond Distribution, what's your deal?

We Kill Monsters came out two weeks ago

And my boys were right there when I did squeal

And add it to my sub list. Why then no

Sign of it yet? I'm dying over here

To see Churilla's monsters, read the tale

By Harkcom and Leone. Now I fear

Another disappointment, one more fail

As I look forward to my weekly trip

To my own local comics mothership.

In Which Is Discovered A Brand New Species

It took podcasting weekly to allow

Me to discover this, a wholly new

And quite unwelcome species. Just for now

Dellrange dumbasicus will have to do

Until Linneans rule on this, my name

For this most noxious creature I so loathe.

Cockroaches, slugs, ants, mice, all have ill-fame

Most undeserved; they've vital roles. I'll clothe

In shame this creature in their stead, one which

Hath no redeeming virtues. All is noise

And fumes where'er it travels. Yes I bitch

In vain against the thund'ring, speeding cars

That ruin my recording tries for hours.

In Which I Plug My Podcast

I'm told I need a podcast promo if
I'm e'er to have some list'ners to my show,
Which want I must, else why do all this? Sniff!
It's lonely there without you all, I know!
So when you've done delighting these, your ears
With this program, whyever won't you click
On over to hear Kate of Mind? Your fears
Are groundless, I assure you. It's no trick:
Just iambic pentameter for us,
The modern generation (mostly nerds).
You know you want to listen. What's the fuss?
Some science, silliness and made-up words
In sonnet form are surely what you need!
Your weekly dose of geekdom's in the feed.

BONUS SONNET: Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, Mac Tonnies

He made me laugh aloud over the air

This afternoon, pretending so to be

A chatterbot. Therefore I thought it fair

To do my best at least to try and see

If I could do the same, give tit for tat.

Mac Tonnies, guest appearing on a show,

To talk about the kinds of matters that

He knows about on real live radio,

I treated to a silly stream of lines

From his own stories in his juvenile

Accomplishment, Illumined Black. All signs

At this hour read "success": at least a smile

If not a laugh I drew. But that's for Mac

To say. If not I'll try more for payback.

In Which Nasal Enemas Are Amply Rewarded

'Tis a mistake to sip a drink and laugh
At once, yet it is hard now to avoid:
When passing time with certain folk my gaffe
Is oft repeated, till I'm quite destroyed.
Michelle Bekemeyer, I'm looking at you.
E'er since Mister Roboto reared its head,
My nose has passed such fluid volume through
As might just drown me. I may say instead
That it just makes me stronger. Ah, but if
It weren't for this it would not be as hard
To listen to your podcast romance riff
While straight of countenance. So now: en garde!
Be careful what you ask for, silly girl,
Lest I another sonnet-snarf unfurl!

In Which I Break My Brain Trying To Bring Back Memories

This week in Saratoga, I got back
A pile of photographs I once had mailed
Home to my parents. From within this stack
Smiled all of my Brazilian friends I've failed
To keep in touch with. Once they taught me bits
Of Portuguese - that mostly over drinks
With the result that my command's the pits
When sober. Time passed faster than eyeblinks:
Years later I'm on Twitter and, for fun
I try to talk to guys from Portugal,
About books, stars and things in their own tongue.
They're kind, amused as I bust out my skull.
Fernando Fonseca and dear Jorge
Candeias, thanks seems not enough to say!

In Which I Extend More Birthday Greetings

J. Gregory Wright, my dear birthday boy,
Though I've not met you, I am pretty sure
We're life-long friends. I do hope you enjoy
Your special day and do more than endure
Your moving ordeal. Once in your new place
I do expect more music and more tweets
About what fun it is to be you (pace
The sours that do come with all the sweets).
It seems a long time yet before we hoist
Our beers in celebration and I learn
The tale behind "Daecabhir" but my choice
Is waiting til then. It is good to yearn
Sometimes. So until Balticon next year
Just keep in touch and smile for me, my dear! \m/

In Which I Extend Birthday Greetings

Mur Lafferty, I can't thank you enough

For podcast fun, both fictional and real.

I Should Be Writing brings me such good stuff --

It's often just the kick-start that I feel

I need (some kind of kicking is required

That much is often clear). But wait, there's more:

The Heaven tales - original, inspired

And freely given to all your hard core

And cas'ual fans to listen and enjoy!

Your Playing for Keeps made me laugh and smile,

As heroes great and small strive to destroy

All expectations. Happy birthday, Mur!

I'm glad that BLT caused such a stir.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Celebrate Decades Under The Sun

When I, for one, think of the 70s

It smells of printer's ink. And what I hear?

A newsroom all abuzz with cursing bees,

The clinks and clunks of linotype. I fear

That I am marked for life by all those days

Spent after school on Main Street at the Sun.

How else explain my decades-later craze

To come back home and join the staff? What fun

To have a byline where my Mom's had been

Chuck's, Candy's, Starley's, Cheryl's, Lori's too!

To take the Wallace Biggs again and win

Like they did. Would that I were there with you!

I'm proud to be a Togie writer, glad

That Dick Perue was there, an extra dad.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Answer A Question

O Bootsy, dear, not only do I blog
But I do so as Shakespeare might have done
(Well, if he was reborn now as a dog
Or typing monkey - but it's all in fun!).
And Bootsy yes, I am a funkateer
Though a white girl who calls Wyoming home.
How glad I am you've joined the Twittasphere
To funk it up. Wherever else I roam
I have you and your peers well on the brain,
Thanks to the iPod and to sim'lar tech.
On bike commutes, long car rides, I keep sane
In no small part due to you and your tunes' help.
So thanks for all the music and the smiles
I still enjoy while eating up the miles.

SONNET DARE: In Which I Call Out The Cholecyst On A Good Friend's Behalf

"Choleric" could describe Netta Ribken:
Of late our girl has been on quite a roll
As she cranks out her novel. Then again
Her temper she has kept under control.
Yet all that passion had to go somewhere
The gallbladder is where that tends to go
(At least per Great Hippocrates). Unfair,
I say it is! Now, what took place next, though:
(Besides the ambulance and surgery
And stay in hospital) was a near-brawl
Twixt Netta and, there in endoscopy,
A doctor -- that, I cannot help but call
Hilarious! As I've been there as well,
How glad I am that Netta gave 'em hell!

On Coming Home After A Minibreak Vacation

'Twas just two days and change and yet it seems
As though I have been gone for weeks instead.
The grass unmowed out front now also screams
For watering, as do the hedge and bed
Of irises and lilies. Welcome back,
Says my front yard as I arrive, so tired
From driving in the blazing sun in black
(Car and attire). See all that has transpired?
There's dust to dust and vacuuming to do.
Out back there's weeds to pull and trim as well.
And by the way when all of that is through
A podcast still needs edited. Oh, hell:
You're worthless as you slump into that chair.
Fine, take a nap, but then to work, I swear!

In Which I Say Good-Bye To A Tall Old Friend

Taking Down Grandfather Cottonwood, originally uploaded by qatesiurade.

This afternoon, a tree is coming down
Beneath whose boughs my childhood swiftly passed.
I'm sure it's quite as old as my hometown,
This cottonwood. On av'rage these trees last
A hundred years, then die within their hearts
And slowly rot from inside out, then fall.
The neighbor's house would take the hit. So starts
An afternoon's work: best to cut and haul
The tree, in parts, away. Thus, soon, the sky
Above my parents' yard will miss a piece
Of long-accustomed scenery. Good-bye
Grandfather Cottonwood, good neighbor. Cease
This mourning now, though, Kate: there still is shade
Beneath the clones and saplings that he made

In Which The Catholics Would Appear To Be Short On Communion Wine

At St. Ann's Parish Hall, up goes my sleeve.
Persuaded once again to trade my blood
For something else, though I do not believe
That mine will save, except one life. A flood
Of fear doth overtake me ere the poke,
Though I donate my blood so often that
A spigot in my arm would be no joke.
My favorite phlebotomist at bat,
I finish up in record time, and make
Direct pressure sieg-heil before quite ten
Swift minutes pass. That's how we work to slake
The thirst for blood. And then, as it's July,
I find I've traded mine for homemade pie.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Sadly Must Decline A Kind Invitation

O Geo, what a dreadful tease you are,
A-sending me announcements such as these.
You know I'd be there were it not so FAR.
Alas, my accolades will need a breeze
Of gale-force just to bring them to your ears.
But know that I shall call out all the same
To hear that мавпа song. Admist the cheers
Imagine mine, too. This do I proclaim:
Someday I'll see you live and make some noise,
And then you'll wonder how you did without
The fangirl squee that tells all of the joys
Of hearing smarter music. Oh, I'll shout!
Till then, dear Geo, go and knock 'em dead.
I'll be there with bells on inside my head.

July 21, 1969 - And 2009

My eyes are ever drawn to the night sky.
Last Friday, Jupiter and sev'ral moons
Had me transfixed; I'd still be there, my eye
Pressed to a scope. Nights turn always to noons,
Though. Now today the world is looking back
To when our moon first felt a human step,
But some of us are also keeping track
Of Jupiter's black spot. I did not get
To see it Friday night; no black spot was
There to be seen back then. It might be so
That just ere that astronomer from Oz
Observed it that a comet struck a blow!
Meanwhile the men who first trod Luna's dust
Declare that now our job is Mars or bust.

In Which I Muse On A World In Which Henry Purcell Is God

Baroque, complex and lovely: so would be
A world where Henry Purcell was its God.
'Twould matter not if actually He
Existed or not. If real the facade
He'd place on His creation would hold fast
To fine ideals we'd strive to emulate.
If just a figment, still his unsurpassed
Oeuvre we'd dreamed up sure would mitigate
The flaws we have as creatures. And the spheres
Would elegantly vibrate -- this although
Our understanding snagged up on the gears
Of Nahum Tate's plumb awful libretto.
An artist who can transcend stuff like that
Could knock Jehovah into a cocked hat!

In Which Star-Gazing Becomes A Bit Of A Pun

The Launch Pad party did afford such chance
As ne'er I get: to peer through a great scope,
Joe Haldeman, my guide, there to enhance
My view of Albireo! How I hope
My life is long, such wonders it has brought!
Gord Sellar, Andy Duncan, Sigler too,
Stargazers with me. Oh what lives we've got
Beneath such wonders, there in orange and blue!
That to Wyoming Julie Jones was drawn
Along with all these others stuns me still.
I could have kept them chatting until dawn
But they have greater pow'rs of mind and will
Than I as yet can muster. So a toast:
The Launch Pad, and Mike Brotherton, our host!

SONNET DUET: An Interview With The Future Dark Overlord Himself, Scott Sigler

Sonneteer's note: I had the unique opportunity last night to attend a party associated with the University of Wyoming's writers' education program, the Launch Pad. One of the attendees is Scott Sigler. Over Guiness and on the spot, he cheerfully agreed to compose this with me. As with prior sonnet interviews, we traded lines: I asked impertinent questions and he gave them the answers they deserve. The video above was shot immediately after he finished his half.

O Scott, how is Wyoming treating you?
Quite well; the Cowboy State is a nice place.
I hear Phil Rossi scares you. Is that true?
Not so. I want to punch him in the face.
What has the Launch Pad taught you all this week?
Stardust and suns and some spectroscopy.
And are you finding all that you did seek?
Lessons of math bring certain gravity.
The Crypt intrigues us all. How will it change?
More murder, rape and raw butchery.
What do you hope from it besides some strange?
Some nightmares for you and cash for Daddy.
So when you're Overlord, what will you do?
What else? Let's line up hot goth chicks and screw!

Bonus Bonus Bonus Sonnet Dare: In Which I Ponder Habitable Exoplanets

In March the Kepler probe began to seek
The subtle signs of planets far in space
That circle other stars. Is Earth unique
As an abode for life like ours? This place
Which some believe's created just for us
Might not be all that special, all that rare.
But then I ponder on Copernicus,
Who laid the Ptolemaic theory bare
And proved to all the Earth goes round the sun.
It took hundreds of years before some folk
Accepted this, unbanned his book and one
Suspects that out there still, like some great joke
Are people who'll insist his work's all lies
And exoplanets naught but fireflies.

Bonus Bonus Sonnet Dare: Of Squids And Beer (And Skids And Cheer?)

Another sonnet dare has come my way,
Inspired in part by some strange public art
Depicting a rare creature that, I'd say
Shows taste and style and signs that it is smart:
The Pabst Blue Ribbon Squid you may see here.
Now, I'm not sure just what it is he seeks:
To cop a cheap feel or a sip of beer,
But it's the oddest thing I've seen in weeks,
And worthy of some poetry of sorts.
Called "I Am Pabst" this mural may not be
An image of what we call indoor sports
Or what looks like some bestality,
But then again it might. Let each decide.
Assasin Grrl may judge while I go hide.

BONUS SONNET DARE: Orangutans Are Probably Smarter Than I Feel Right Now

Those oxidation numbers hurt my head.
I'll soothe it by consid'ring now an ape,
The "old man of the forest", who, it's said
Trades favors much like humans do. I gape
At what we've learned about them recently!
We've also seen them harness water as
A tool to float a peanut prize. I'll be
Surprised if that's all we learn, for there has
Been much more research started here and there
On symbol acquisition, and if what
Sounds much like laughter is just that and where
They might yet thrive as habitats shrink. But
What'er they find, Neil Richards gets his prize:
A made-to-order sonnet. Feast your eyes!

SONNET DARE: Oxydation Numbers Represent The Charge After Ligands Are Removed

O Roman numerals! What can't you do?
Among your uses is denoting a
Coordination compound's charge in lieu
Of what its ligands add. Now ligands, they
Are atoms bound to metals which donate
Electrons, not from kindness but because
Its nicer to be neutral - not a state
To scoff at, for it's stable by all laws
Of matter that we know: To have a charge
Is to repel like, draw unlike and to make --
But I digress; this topic is too large
For fourteen lines of poetry to take
A proper survey of, at least for me.
Oxidation numbers, I flee from thee!

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Howl At The Moon

'Twas forty years ago this very day

Apollo the Eleventh left the pad

Bound for a date with destiny away

Upon another world. Three men all clad

In our space age's finest future garb

Left Earth to walk upon our planet's moon.

Since then we've scarce returned; there lies a barb

That wounds me, yet I've hope we'll be there soon

Again. There's LRO/LCROSS and all.

Meanwhile our own dear Duncan Jones has made

A worthy little film, a clarion call,

One vision of what we might have to trade

To live there and to keep our lifestyle here.

I took it in today. This Moon, I cheer!

In Which I Dream Like An Android

I've waited long to see how this would be:

A graphic novel of Philip K. Dick's

Most famous work. Now I have it. With glee

I say it's what I'd hoped for. 'Mong its tricks

Are faithfulness to Dick's work that's beyond

My expectations, as well as design

Of chracters that's expressive and fond.

While on the brink of being just a fine,

Fine picture-book, it has moments of grace

As heart-wrenching as some of Dick's best prose

(Jack Isidore in body and in face

Tugs 'specially at me). Now as it grows

To twenty-four issues I'll watch, quite pleased,

If it continues as well as it's teased.

All Good Things Come To Those Who Wait

Today Endeavor finally took off!

A perfect launch that almost made me cry

(But as we know, and yes, you all may scoff

I often seem to have caught in my eye

Particulates at launch time, causing tears).

Today was to be my first meet for drinks

With Sigler, yes, the FDO of fears

Both great and small. But Friday now, methinks

Is when that's to occur. I am content

To wait 'til then. A party's in the works:

Scott Sigler, others too, who will have spent

Some days in Laramie, diligent as clerks

At The Launch Pad, learning space science and

Hobnobbing with Phil Plait and Haldeman.

In Which I Am Still Hung Up On My Love For Guiness

This morning I learned of a contest rare:
To celebrate two hundred fifty years
Of brewing nectar quite beyond compare
The Guinness brewery brought me to tears
Of joy. I still recall my first small sip
Of Guiness Stout; 'twas nineteen eighty nine,
I was away at school, on a short trip
To Rhinebeck with some friends and feeling fine.
Between us and the swanky restaurant
Lurked BevWay, and we stopped there to restock
Our beer supply. I mentioned that I'd want
To try that stuff someday. My friends in shock
Bought up a bunch and we dashed back to school...
For Guiness ever since, I've been a fool.

In Which I Trip All Over A Pile Of Superlatives Cluttering Up My Office Floor, Or Guiness Is REALLY Good For You

It took a man in Hong Kong to get through
To me that this was going on. Hoorah!
Forget the Cylon Toaster. I've a new
Obsession: winning this. I'm filled with awe
To be alive for this event. That my
Most fav'rite brew, Guiness, and fav'rite place
Can come together in this way means I
Already feel I've been launched into space.
My thoughts race at near-orbital speeds and
I all but scream my joy at the mere thought.
My eyeballs roll, I grab on with one hand
To steady myself at my desk. I ought
Not to be too surpised that it is they
Who'd think to celebrate in this great way.

Two Geek Tastes That Would Taste Great Together

Approaches now Shark Week 2009,
When we all celebrate a great success:
The Selichimorphae. It would be fine
Enough all on its own, but then there's -- yes!
The notion of some sharks as astronauts.
Now, don't you laugh - it makes a certain sense.
Survivors they are, tougher than robots;
Relentless, they are, too, and quite intense.
Accustomed, too, to move in vast 3-D
Environments, near-weightless, and they're smart,
With ratios, brain-to-mass, that, we can see,
Match many mammals'. And then, the best part:
To make spacesuits for sharks would be a breeze:
No sleeves or pantlegs needed. Do it, please!

Sonneteer's note: this one was commissioned by the great and mighty Ian O'Neil of Discovery Space, who wanted some way to get in on some of that sweet Shark Week action while still remaining true his official purview, which is, of course, space science and astrophysics. It was Ian who cooked up the artwork accompanying this post. Just so you know, your sonneteer is not the only bozo on this bus...

BONUS SONNET: In Which A Lost Grape Becomes A Veritable Zelig at TAM7

As a small grape left lonely on on the floor

Of a Las Vegas venue is how Dave

Began his life. John Walker can't ignore

Such sadness when he sees it, so he gave

A second lease on life to this small fruit.

For 'twas the seventh TAM, a time for great

And small to come together and to toot

The horn of skepticism. Since I, Kate,

Could not be there I rejoice in this tale

Of how a raisin met such superstars

As Randi, Penn & Teller, and Phil Plait. Hail

Dave, the wee TAM Seven raisin! Ours

To cherish in the photo logs John made

Forever. What a worthy grape crusade!

Migraine, Or, Hurry Up With The Locust Research Already

When ants of searing light march past my eyes
In crazed formations that it hurts to trace,
I know that feedback screeches I despise
Will fill my ears soon and I'll feel my face
Is far too small as is my viselike skull
Which someone cranked too tightly round my head.
The pain comes slowly; at first just a dull
Throb. Soon, though, I'll just want to go play dead,
Lie down in darkness, holding very still
And hoping that the harpies find me not.
Of course I'm caught flat-footed, not one pill
Of Imitrex is in my house. It's hot
And stifling. My poor dog knows something's wrong
And curls up by my bed, suffers along.

Naughty Thor! Bad Thor! No Mead For You!

So yesterday 'twas strangely apropos,
As it was Tesla's birthday and did he
So much to bring us juice to make things go
(Of course I'm talking of 'lectricity),
That lightning struck the mast on 39-A,
The launch pad 'pon which our Endeavor poised
In Florida for hopeful launch today.
That launch is canceled, but I'm not annoyed
With Tesla. As my friend Nicole reminds:
Causation should not ever be inferred
From correlation. Still my heart it finds
Much fault with Thor, that surly, churlish turd.
For LRO/LCROSS I offered wine.
That tantrum, though, means this time it's all mine.

SONNET DARE: In Which I Plan My Annual Hasty Escape From Cheyenne

Cheyenne is where I live and work, but lo:
Each summer comes a time when it's like hell.
At first in June the streets are torn up so
That bike commuting's best, though a hard sell
For folks who love their pickups as these do.
Post-haste a summer's worth of work is done
In preparation for an onslaught. Coo!
Frontier Days brings all, under one hot sun,
That I like least about Wyoming life:
Fake cowboys, amateur drunks, strafing planes,
Loud music that goes twang and redneck strife
(Thanks, Walter, for this dare to list my banes).
At least it leaves the mountains free for those
Who like Wyoming for its sweet repose.

In Which I Spend An Afternoon With Phil Rossi

Phil Rossi's book's great chart rush is today,

As I may have said once or twice before.

He's on Ustream right now and, yes, hooray

He's playing tunes and reading tales of yore.

I've died already to a nerdgasm

(Redneck-flavored) from when he up and played

A NIN tune "Hurt" with much more than just some

Cash-flavor (Johnny Cash, that is). I'm flayed

From watching him play through this set.

His book is doing well, and he's aglow.

MsInformation's there with me; we'll get

Him uncovered ere he decides to go

Off to the pub to drink and celebrate.

Huzzah for Phil! His novel IS that great!

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Prepare To Help With A Chart Rush

Phil Rossi scares Scott Sigler, my shirt reads.
Today we help his book rush up the charts
At Amazon. It's just reward for deeds
Of podcast novel promulgation. Hearts
Have raced and pulses pounded as he's read
His creepy sci-fi tale to us online
For free. That Crescent's sure messed with my head.
And I can't wait to hold its weird, malign
And creepy goodness in my hands. I'll wait
Till thirteen hundred hours, E.D.T.,
Click over, order, then, O happy fate,
Go watch his online concert! Cover me
In happiness on his behalf. Go buy
His book and dig it. What a guy!

What I Have Learned So Far As A Baby Podcaster

The sound of smacking lips is most loathesome:

Recording while one's mouth is dry's not smart.

The KATE STATION is comfy to talk from

But Dell Range traffic noise is like a fart

In church: just what we never want to hear.

Audacity, that wondrous software, saves

My list'ners from those sounds, keeps the stream clear

(Though eats up time removing them; we're slaves,

Perfectionism cracks the whip). But naught

Can change my diction. I talk slowly and

Am told I sound like I've been nearly caught

Midway to some far sleepy, dreamy land.

And oh yes, how the Show Notes are my pals,

Some things just must be seen, their rationales.

In Which Cocktail Hour Finally Gives Us An Excuse To Stop What The Rain Could Not

Late afternoon, after a hard day's toil

In my backyard with Dad cracking his whip,

It's cocktail hour. We watch the stormclouds roil

And lightning flash oer all that we did strip

Of weeds and bunch grass at no little cost.

I eschew power tools whene'er I can;

Expensive to maintain, then there's exhaust

Inhaled while working. But as Carol Ann

Sherrod might say, you does with what you has.

And what I had was a vast crop of weeds

Beyond what I felt I could cope with as

A single girl. But now my father bleeds

From helping me. The least that I can do

Is get him drunk, and yes, my mother, too.

In Which Pretty Pictures Panic The Pea-Brained

Crop circles make me smile, yes, and admire
The ingenuity of the artistes
Who make them. I have tried, but quickly tire;
To push down crops is hard work, and I cease
Long ere my handiwork takes on the scope
Of such as these, whose dire significance
Would seem all doomsday sayers' greatest hope.
Upon these wacky claims I look askance.
Ultraterrestrials (to use the late
John Keel's term), if they really did care
Enough to warn us of a baneful date
Would, I feel sure, find a clear way to share.
And yeah, the hole in our magnetosphere
And CME threat are explained right here.

BONUS SONNET: Locusts: Not Just For Baptists Anymore

We're told of old that John the Baptist fed

Himself on locusts and wild honey; I

Prefer orthopterans in chocolate, dead

Or perhaps still alive, though they can fly

Right out one's mouth unless well-coated.

But I'm digressing; here's why I've now got

Acrididae on my brain. It's noted

Up north in Canada that they are not

Unlike us, in they're subject to the same

Disturbances that cause migraines in a

Small suff'ring population, which I claim

With no pride to be part of. This is the

Best reason to revere them ever, sure:

By stud'ying them we might approach a cure!

It's Independence DAY Not Independence Week, Dammit!

Lest I be called unpatriotic, I
Should n'er complain at Fourth of July fun.
But last I checked, a date was one day. Fie
Upon my neighbors, each and ev'ry one
Whose infinite supply of crappy booze
And caps to pop and hoot at like dumb apes
Keeps me awake long past the hour I choose
To call bedtime and pull closed all my drapes.
At least my dog, she gets some exercise,
A-jumping and a-shaking, startled at
Each wee explosion. I would not despise
This jubilation were it just on that
One special day and night, but let's be real.
The holiday lasts weeks now. What's the deal?

The Great White Handkerchief Can Come Any Day Now, Thanks

Oolon Colluphid's fav'rite cover girl,
Adorning so his first, most famous book,
Has quit her job of making people hurl --
At least from Juneau's mansion. What it took
To make her stop, I really do not know.
I fear she's after Zaphod's job for her
Grand Krikkit party. Please can't someone throw
Her back into the Slo-Time? Or transfer
This real-life Humma Kavula away
To Frogstar Planet B to meet her fate?
O Sarah Palin, what else can I say
That you've not said much worse? I can't relate.
My fluency ain't what it used to be
In Gibberish, and when you speak, I flee.

BONUS SONNET: In Which The Customary Closet Is Eschewed... For The Clothes Dryer?

I have a dog, and Molly is her name.

A tale or two I've told of her before.

I now may add to her e'er-growing fame

For cowardice, the following: Of yore,

When thunder's rumbles have occurred,

E'en ere their sensing by mere human ears,

To hide has been her instinct, though absurd;

Our house is large and sturdy. Molly's fears

Will brook no consolation, though. At most

Such times this collie-chicken mix has made

Her shelter in a closet. There, a ghost

In black and white she's cowered and she's stayed

Until bribed with a nom. But now the dryer

Seems safer? Or does she seek lint attire?

An Inquiry Into The Nature And Causes Of Cockroach Fat

In Blaberus craniifer, my theme
Today (cockroaches), fat bodies appear
As nothing so much as some well-whipped cream.
These organs do a lot; they don't just smear
The lab bench. Cockroach fat is on my mind,
Now that I've learned that roaches lard up, too,
When fed a diet that we have maligned
As bad for people. It is also true,
It would appear, that nymphs are most at risk:
A young one, poorly fed, will soon become
A listless, fatty adult with no frisk,
Slow to mature, to mate, quick to succumb
To ennui. An idea for roach control
Does then occur: just share the Fritos bowl!

Of Slime, Zappa, Ants And Worms

Frank Zappa wrote a song about the slime

That comes through one's own television set.

The Simpsons had Kent Brockman, that one time

Proclaiming our ant overlords no threat.

Comes now the news that down in fair Raleigh

(That's Raleigh, not R'lyeh) there dwells a blob

Down in the sewer, pulsating. Call me

A sucker for a creature tale, but it's my job

To celebrate the weird and to explain

Here that it's really just some worms without

Ought to coil 'round but one another. Fain

Am I, too, in faith to point this out:

We've known of Argentine ants' teeming spread

All 'round the world since '02. Use your head!

In Which I All But Wee Myself Over... A Toaster?

We all know that I love my BSG

And miss it so now that it's at an end.

But can you all imagine all my squee

To see this thing? It's sent me round the bend.

I'd love it just for all its shiny chrome,

My decor tends to modern, metal-shine.

But it's a Cylon toaster! How my home

Doth need it! For it I would build a shrine.

It doesn't just resemble Cylons, no:

The toast it makes takes on a Cylon face.

And think on how my own face, it would glow

Each morning when I take my toast. In space

Or here on Earth, it would be a fine thing.

O Cylon toaster, how of thee I'd sing!

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Offer To Be A Writing Buddy

O JennyBeanses, your wish is my command:
I'll kick you hard whene'er you miss your goal.
Your word count I shall watch, and I'll demand
An update ev'ry day or else extol
Your failure here in public, sonnet form.
It is the very least that I can do
To thank you for the Goblin Market. Storm
The castle, swim the moat, just burst on through
Each day if you don't want to feel my wrath,
Which burns as hot as human fat inside
Your leg-o-lamp. With such set as your path,
Such shall be your success. I am your guide
To boasting rights, completion, to the end
Of your weird quest. I have that time to spend.