Wednesday, September 30, 2009

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Consider Overstrained Emoticons

I look upon my keyboard's topmost row,
And what a strange assortment meets my eye!
A choice of numerals or marks that go
(For the most part) at the tail end of my
Long sentences -- or such was once the case
Ere email and its ilk came on the scene,
And people sought to make of them a face
To try push the words past what they mean
In dictionary senses: Sarcasm,
A gentle tease, confusion, any hue
That ears or body language could draw from
The spoken word, or eyes see as a clue
From handwriting or facial expression.
Emoticons, ubiquitous, have won.

In Which An Engagement Is Announced That Shows All Is Right With The World - Or That The Zombie Apocalypse Is Imminent - Or Both

My friend, James Melzer, cried out "Hey there, BEAAAAANNNNS,
How 'bout we climb up in that Zombie Tree
And fight off walking death from there. I means
For good. And between battles, why don't we
Make sweet love by the fire?" "Oh, well, of COURSE!"
Quoth our Jennifer Hudock. Hold the phone --
Did Melzer just sprout antlers by main force
Of Beanses' strange imagination? Own
It James, you are her hero and I'll say
The antlers suit you well, and as does that hue
Of green she's got you wearing. Shout "hooray"
My readers, at the wondrous schemes these two
Concoct both for themselves and all of us.
I'll say this news is worth making a fuss!

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Take A Slightly Inebriated Bike Ride

A few beers 'neath my belt from Kevin's pad,
Deep Blue between my legs under a sky
Both deep and dark, a bright moon and a tad
Too much effusive joy to act as guide
I pedaled swiftly home. The Greenway's glow
In moonlight kept me safely within bounds
Though my gaze was turned up more, toward the show
Up there, as Venus shyly made her rounds
Close to our satellite, which so has caught
Our thoughts, imagination for so long.
Just slightly off my stride, I perhaps ought
Not to have been a-biking, but no wrong
Or harm came to me; truly I felt charmed
And now am home all safe and yes, unharmed.

In Which I Am Delighted By A Faux History

A quite unseemly love of fakery,
Of hoaxers and imposters of all sorts
Is mine. I am less fond of drapery,
But still, I like it better than, say, sports,
As topics for close study and talk go.
So when Forgotten Fashion caught my eye
I knew I had to have it. It's a "faux"
Account of fashion trends that had to die.
Outrageous, playful, strange and funny, each
Sly entry, so convincingly is phrased
That I'm sure that some, quite fooled, soon will preach
From it about that industry, so crazed
It is for all that's new and different.
Kate Hahn, your book is wonderfully bent!

Monday, September 28, 2009

Meta Sonnet: In Which I Consider The Role Of Technology In My Poetry For ParadiseTossed

Without the internet, they could not be,
These sonnets that I publish every day.
While, when first I did start, I thought I'd see
Some real-life inspiration in the play
Of people and events, quite soon I found
A richer vein on Twitter for ideas:
Those links and news which daily there abound
Are now essential; then, too, there's the squeeze
I sometimes put to friends there: sonnet dares.
Then, too, there is the question of research!
I am no chemist, for example. There's
No telling in what deeply horrid lurch
I'd be without those Wikis and RhymeZone.
I don't think I could write these all alone.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

Meta-Sonnet: In Which I Rush To Write One For The Sake Of Writing One

As bad things happen all around me, still
I have to at least try to sonnetize
To keep my resolution. I'd be ill
And hate myself for days if compromise
Made this the day I at last failed to post
A sonnet here. Please pardon this, my haste.
Completing these is what I love the most
About my days this year. This seems a waste
Of syllables, this poem, but all I've got
Is seconds, it would seem. And now my brain
Seems to have sunk into a state of rot.
Its liquified and would run down a drain
Were I to hold my head near one and shake.
So now you know what little sense I make.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Long To Be Outdoors All The Time In Autumn

It cannot be the smell of slow, cold death,
That drives me e'er outdoors this time of year
To exercise and draw in one deep breath
And then another, can it? Yet I fear
Sometimes that my deep love of Fall's just that:
A love affair with all that does decay,
Dry up, fall off, freeze, rot and then go splat,
Or just detach and gently blow away.
But summer's sun pins me down like a bug,
It burns my bare skin, gives me headaches, brings
Unwanted gawkers out who'll see me. Ugh.
Now as it wanes I think not of those things,
Just climb aboard my bike, relish the chill
And see how quickly I can climb that hill.

Saturday, September 26, 2009

In Which I Squee Over... A Gemstone?

I must admit, I long have had a crush
Or two on men whom history has named
As Great, including Alexander. Mush
Replaces brains at any time this famed
Megalomaniac is brought up. I
Have won bar bets on what he called his horse
(Bucephalus) (my hometown's strange) - no lie!
So when I saw this gemstone that, of course,
Was just unearthed in Israel I was
Quite captivated. This carnelian stone
Depicts him young and hubba-worthy. Does
This make me sound a madwoman? I own
Such as an epithet for me. Hooray!
The news of this has simply made my day!

Friday, September 25, 2009

In Which I Am Chastened By A Scene At A Fast Food Joint

How old is he, the man we saw at noon,
A whisk broom and a dustpan in his hands,
A cannula connecting his nose to
A backpack tank of oxygen? He stands
Just slightly stooped, a hard-working rebuke
To how we haven't cared well for those folk
Who've toiled their lives away, then by some fluke
Of fate that's really more a bitter joke,
Though well-advanced in years, still find they're stuck
With no recourse but to take on such work
In fast-food clean-up, just to make the buck
Or two he needs to stay alive. The smirk
His supervisor gave us while this wage
Slave shuffled past still calls up rage.

Friday Flash: Everyone's A Critic

Sonneteer's note: this is the sixth installment of my sonnet-by-sonnet summary of a larger work, The Interstellar Feller, to be released sometime next year. To see the story so far, check out Part the Oneth here, Part the Twoth here, Part the Threeth here, part the Fourth here and Part the Fiveth here!

The shuttle's plume of flame as it departs
Draws much attention 'round the neighborhood,
Especially that of good old Farmer Hartz
Whose field was decorated by the good
And hearty crew of Grokluator. He
Emerges from the farmhouse with a rake
He brandishes as what must surely be
His only weapon, but they are long gone,
The artists who made of his field a shrine
To Pepi's manly beauty. As the dawn
Breaks on Hartz' landscape, all that fine
Detail work is lost on the landowner
But 'mongst the news 'copters is caused a stir.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

In Which I Shamelessly Rip Off A Chel White Film

Chel White has shown us what he goes through when
It's time to write. It feels so strange and true
That it is my own sharp, harsh medicine
For when my own processes leave me blue.
First off, I kill the lights except for that
Which shines out from my laptop's baleful screen.
Then smoke a cigarillo there, out back,
Behind my house. I write some words, then scream,
Draw weirdo red cartoons in a Moleskine,
Then wipe out roughly half the words I've made.
To round things out, I let The Dude (he's mine
Own greatest muse) say how I feel, then trade
Self-pity for the awesome pow'r of PANTS.
Then write a lot, crank up the tunes, and dance.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

In Which I Watch A Strange Convention From The Sidelines (And No, It Is Not Bacon-Con)

I really just don't understand the birds!
Cheyenne's entire population of
American Tree sparrows, or two-thirds
Of it at least, are, for all love,
Now congregated tight in my backyard.
What's drawn them here to me? I cannot guess.
I simply watch them hopping, jostling hard
Against each other in the grass -- unless
The brand-new chilliness has caused
A mass die-off of insects? Winter's change
Makes these birds switch from bugs to seeds. I've paused
Now in this writing because something strange
Just happened: they've all flown up to my fence,
Then flown back to my lawn again. What sense?

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

In Which Vikram Seth -- and Lethe Bashar -- Make Me Feel Silly In More Ways Than One

Today I left my current reading back
At home, quite by mistake, but, lucky me:
I am compulsive, keep a mighty stack
Of books always. In my bag I'd a key
To at least one untasted universe.
Thanks to the same dear friend who hooked me on
Cao Xuecin, 'twas a novel, writ in verse,
By Vikram Seth, on which I'm simply gone.
I'm sheepish to say that The Golden Gate
Was new to me before Lethe mentioned it.
I'm stunned at the perfection of this bait
For keeping me from other tasks. Its wit,
So sly yet sad, has me laughing out loud,
Much to comrades' confusion. Hope he's proud.

BONUS SONNET: In Which Frank Roche Wears Many Hats

You may know he's an HR Superman,
But everyone has got his secret side.
Behold Frank Roche, whose interests do span
Beyond the common lot, and woe betide
Those who might underestimate him. Lo!
For while he rocks the suit set with his sage
Advice on dealing with employees, go
With him into his inner life; engage
With him on deeper levels and you'll see
When a fedora's switched for black beret,
A pack of cigarettes close by his knee,
A hepcat doth emerge! I can't convey
The wonder that is there just 'crossed the gap:
Francois Gauluoise, the beatnik poet. Snap!

Monday, September 21, 2009

In Which The Seasons Change Very Swiftly

Just yesterday I wrote of the approach
Of Autumn, felt and seen by many signs.
I missed it once again; winter doth broach
Our talk already as the month declines.
Today's the equinox if one believes
The calendar, but, in Wyoming, learn:
Already we have snow. I'm sure the leaves
Would have been pretty if allowed to turn,
Likewise, the crabapples that I've watched grow
In my backyard might have made lovely jam
Had they a chance to ripen. But I know
Such hopes are most quixotic, as I am
Each April when I dream of such. Alas!
How swiftly those Fall minutes seem to pass!

Sunday, September 20, 2009

In Which I Feel The Approach Of A New Season

The leaves, still green, could have blown off the trees
Today, instead of twisting to point out
The wind's direction. We've not had a freeze
As yet, to make my neighbors rush about
And cover their tomatoes, but, this week,
When I get on my bike, the sky's still dark,
For that first morning ride to work. Soon bleak
And cold this trip will be, lonely and stark --
Already my hands need a pair of gloves.
But for right now, the grasshoppers, my friends
Still bask in afternoon heat, but my loves
Grow sluggish, and more of them meet their ends
'Neath walking feet and skates and, yes, bike tires.
And with them soon the summer, too, expires.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

Sonnet Dare: In Which I Contemplate Pieces of Kate

I lost my temper at one point today.
Some news tore out my heart from in my chest.
My liver is on strike to make me pay
For the Greek beer I drank last night. It's best
That we don't even mention these, my knees
Rebelling, too, from biking on a flat
(My eyes refused, e'en though I did say "please"
To see in all that dark where we were at
Enough to pump it back to fullness) ache
Somewhat. I fear they might come off if I
Don't keep an eye on them. I'd hate to make
The error of misplacing them. I'm spry
But without them I'm hopelessly in place,
And someone's sure to ask "why the long face?"

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Commemarrrrrate A Special Day, Me Hearties!

Well, shiver me timbers, 'tis time again,
When Robert Newton speaks through all of us.
We swill the grog, dance hornpipes 'round and then
Shout "Aye, me, hearties" smartly, spit and cuss
The lubbers out! Talk Like a Pirate Day
Is dear to all our hearts as heaped doubloons.
It is the one occasion when, to say
Naught but an "Arrrr" sound denotes, not buffoons,
But eloquent orators of the seas.
Prepare, me beauty, to be boarded like
A merchanter with a load of Chinese
Silks, Asian spices, tea, gold, as would strike
A privateer as booty worth the grab!
And if ye will not play? Walk the plank, you scab!

Friday, September 18, 2009

In Which I Dash Off To A Greek Festival -- But Not Without Writing A Sonnet

The Greek Festival is my yearly excuse
To summon forth my Saratoga babes --
Punk Martha Stewart, and another muse
моя сузитчка. All of us are slaves
To music, food and dancing, and, yes beer.
It's one of those rare times when old Cheyenne
Is truly fun, this special time of year.
We also celebrate the growing span
Of years that PMS has lived -- you know
It was her birthday just this week -- why hold
A party when a big one's on? Hello!
With better food and music, lots of cold
Bud Light, and then the three of us, amuck.
Excuse me now -- the Greek food bug has struck!

Friday Flash: Pepito Ponders His Status

Sonneteer's note: this is the fifth installment of my sonnet-by-sonnet summary of a larger work, The Interstellar Feller, to be released sometime next year. To see the story so far, check out Part the Oneth here, Part the Twoth here ,Part the Threeth here and part the Fourth here.

Their strange task now completed, the crack crew
Of that good ship, the Grokulator, step
Back for a moment to admire the view
Before Yectara calls to them, says "Yep,
That's what was needed. Now we must away."
They gather up their tools. Pepito stands
As stolid as a cow, which, one might say,
Is only natural. Such strange demands
As these are new to one who, before now
Took nothing but drink orders. Now he's made
A crop circle in his own likeness. How
He got here is beyond him. He's been played.
But there's Yectara, standing by the door.
She blows a kiss, and he don't care no more.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

In Which I Go Eww Over Chew

The artwork here is loose and slightly crazed
Befitting this demented tale of food
From Layman and Guillory. None have praised
Them highly enough for this weirdly crude
New comic that depicts a future more
Bizarre than any I've yet seen, in which
A psychic reads by eating, and his chore
Is tracking chicken traffickers. A niche
Within the FDA is his, and they're atop
The law enforcement hierarchy due
To chicken's prohibition. Make it stop?
Oh no, for we've a hero, Tony Chu,
A cibopath who can solve any crime
With just a bite of victim, given time!

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Meta-Sonnet: In Which I Dream Of A Better One

Today I wrote a sonnet in a dream,
Dreamed, too, that I had posted it right here,
Where this attempt is now. But it would seem
The adder whom I dreamed stole it. I fear
It was the best one that I ever wrote.
I certainly believed this as I slept.
I reach now for it, just to watch it float
Away. I sit and wish now that I'd kept
On sleeping, even though t'would be a waste
Of precious time, called free, that's really not
At all free. How I live my life, in haste
To reach these days, only to nap and rot
When they arrive! And yet, shining and rare
That sonnet, dreamed of, still awaits me there.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

In Which I Contribute Some Additional Apohenia To The Google Crop Circle Mystery Meme

The Google page has a new doodle now:
Crop circles spell out the site's name. Meanwhile
A Twitter note gave numbers to allow
Coordinated users to beguile
Themselves by checking out ground zero of
War of the Worlds, by one H.G. Wells, who,
Has a birthday upcoming. How we love
Such puzzles. Now we all have moved on to
Why Google would choose to commemorate
(A week ahead of time, I'd like to add)
That day one hundred forty-three years late?
Perhaps a clue from Shakespeare might be had?
In Sonnet 143 he tries to wring
Attention back from chicken-chasing... BING?

Monday, September 14, 2009

In Which The Punk Martha Stewart Completes Another Fabulous Trip Around The Sun

Some people can make anything look good
Because they really just have that much style.
Upon a list of same one surely would
Include our Erin Easter. No worthwhile
Endeavor can't be bettered by her touch,
Be it some ramen noodles or that place
We once called Unabomber (it's too much
To detail here the magic she wrought). Face
The facts, Kate, this is one fantastic friend
Whom you can never thank enough for all
She's done to make your time pleasant to spend
While on this earth, except maybe to call
On everyone who reads this now to tell
Her happy birthday and to wish her well!

Sunday, September 13, 2009

In Which A Tasty New Recipe Is Born... Well, Maybe Not

My sister hath rare culinary skill:
When I found frozen tater tots a-athaw
Upon the counter, she did not grow ill,
Suggested an idea, which I, with awe,
Share here: her notion of just what I ought
To do with them. And it's not wholly bad.
Dear sister Kris, she knows that I've been caught
With no bananas, and that I have had
A green tea smoothie daily for a year
(Green tea, banana, honey, frozen fruit
All blended well). She blurted out with cheer
That tater tots might be a substitute
For those bananas. Truly, she is wise.
She's single too, and easy on the eyes!

In Which I Am Haunted By A Ghost Fleet

I have a fascination with the ships
That carry freight between the continents.
I've often thought of hopping one; yes, it's
Long been an idle dream of mine. Events,
Though, in the world economy have trapped
Five hundred ships just off Malaysia's coast
At anchor with just tiny crews, all strapped
For work and operating funds. A ghost
Fleet it's been called, and it's hush-hush.
A sign of long malaise that contradicts
The good news that so many, in a rush,
Have bleated 'bout recovery. The fix
If such come will move these shipts first,
So I shall hunker down, expect the worst.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Muse On A Strange Literary Trope

A city that's a giant railway train
Seems to me a most strange motif to keep
Encountering in fiction, e'en the strain
Called speculative. And there's a small heap
Of books I've lately read that featured such:
The characters must build the way before
Then tear up rails and ties behind. A crutch
For storytelling? I think maybe more
Is going on than that in these great books:
Mieville's Iron Council, Reynold's Gap,
And Christopher Priest's Inverted World looks
To do it, too. Allusion to the trap
Of civilized life is what I most see,
But still most strange this trope appears to me.

Saturday, September 12, 2009

IN MEMORIAM: David Foster Wallace (February 21, 1962 – September 12, 2008)

One year ago today, he broke my heart,
Though it was not the first time he did that.
In 1996, he tore apart
My brain. His tale of a filmed samizdat,
Addiction, tennis, school and Boston gave
Me dizzy spells e'en ere the weirdness hit.
It pains me that his humor could not save
Himself, but there are limits to what wit
Can do, footnoted or not. Greedy, I
Will most miss his non-fiction pieces, which
Could make the world a bit more strange. I'll cry
Again today for him. He made me rich
In stored enjoyment, and I thank him for
What he could give us. Wish there were some more.

Friday, September 11, 2009

In Which I Endure A Little Culture Shock

My dad needed a Stetson cover for
His cowboy hat in case tomorrow's game
Is rainy. So we went down to a store
That I should have known, just from its mere name
Would shock me. At the Boot Barn I went blind
From flashing glare off th'encrusted bling
Of Christian cowgirl belts, hung up, aligned
For maximum impact. So here's the thing:
Who wears such things, and for what kind of date
Are crosses made of rhinestones round one's waist
Sartorially most appropriate?
I know full well the question is of taste,
But wonder, too, what strange new form of prayer
Takes such a form, and really, why I care.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

In Which I Prepare To Be Invaded

The KATE STATION is home to a mere two:
The collie and your humble sonneteer.
In minutes, though, I'll be trying to do
All that I can, with all of my good cheer
To make some room for this, my family -
Mom, Dad, and Sister Kris and, don't forget
That Missy Shitz-poo dog. It's going to be
Our first time all together here. I'll bet
There's something I've neglected that will make
Things difficult for someone. Well at least
The books are shelved, and I've managed to take
Back this old kitchen table from the beast
That is my laptop and accessories.
We might even dine off it if we please!

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

In Which My Own Dear Personal Dad Has A Cool Birthdate

Today's date is 09/09/09,
Which we agree is cool all on its own.
It's also quite a day for me and mine:
My father's birthday. How the years have flown
Since he would come home in his uniform
And Kris and I would rush him in the hall.
We're grown now and occasions when his warm
Embrace can hold us both are rare. I call
Him hero still; he always finds a way
To make a diff'rence for the better in
Our lives and others'. How can I convey
My love for him in fourteen lines? I've been
Attempting it for hours, so I'll just say
I love you, Dad, and oh, happy birthday!

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

BONUS SONNET Riding Beneath Two Skies

I left the office, stood in pouring rain.
Ahead of me those dark, forbidding skies
Loomed angry, as though I had caused the pain
That leaked from all those clouds into my eyes.
Behind me, though, as I pulled far away
Out of the shadow of the building there
Was perfect blue and sunshine. I did stay,
Admiring the demarcation where
The two skies met, a moment, then turned on
To Yellowstone Ave, already soaked through,
Hair plastered to my face and eyebrows drawn
In concentration. All I sought was to
Turn east onto the Greenway and to see
The rainbow that would show my path to me.

In Which I Start Seriously Anticipating A Live Gig

I must admit, I've truly got an itch
Today to see live music, but I've got
A month yet ere I go to see some Bhtch,
My buddy's band. Just recently I've caught
This urge in earnest; it's consuming me.
I've been a friend and fan so very long!
I'm like the Conchords' Mel, as you will see
If you're around, especially if one song
I wrote for them gets played: The Donut Ranch,
Or one I will not name here: too obscene
(But you can go and listen; just don't blanch
At the portmanteau cursing); here I'm clean,
As is my podcast. O, October 9
At Morseland! I've got chills all up my spine!

Monday, September 7, 2009

Sonnet Dare: An Acrostic Of My Former Twitter Username (Qatesiuradewyo)

Quick, Martin, throw that sonnet gauntlet down!
Apparently I said this at some point
To Martin Double-Dactyl master clown.
Essentially that's the story of this joint
(Spike Lee, I do apologize for that;
I don't think that you'll ever read this, though).
Unusually I don't feel I combat,
Rather I go quite smoothly with the flow
A sonnet should have as I take this dare.
Does this make me accomplished? I can't say,
Except it feels quite good, beyond compare.
Why, I think I could do this ev'ry day.
You'd probably get bored, though, if I did.
Oh Martin, here's your sonnet, crazy kid!

Sunday, September 6, 2009

In Which I May Lose My Mind But Gain A Nickname

Just now occurred one of the stranger things
That Twitter's brought my way in recent days.
The current meme is of the kind that brings
The punsters out in quite ferocious ways.
It's #notsosuperheroes that they name,
John Gregson thought of the Pun Issuer.
And, Milton Mermikides in the game,
Of course I thought that name must sure refer
To him. Then John said if that be the case,
Then Irony Man is his nom de guerre.
Agreeing, I then fell flat on my face
With one for me, but Milt with savoir faire
Dubbed me anew, and how? You'll never guess!
Behold the Iambic Pentamistress!

Saturday, September 5, 2009

In Which I Consider The Twilight Of The Tweets, But Not With Great Seriousness

It's no surprise that I'm an opera fan,
Not since Tee Morris flushed me out last week,
And we all know I Tweet all that I can,
But even so, this news fair made me freak!
A Twitter opera, its pun-ful name
Of Twitterdammerung, seemed like a joke --
But that is not the punchline. Oh, for shame!
A friend's rhetoric excess made me choke
With laughter and I shared it with my tweeps:
That Sir Andrew Lloyd-Webber had a plan
To make a Twitter musical. This keeps
On circulating now as news. Oh man!
My real regret is that 'twas not my fate,
Though, to compare crowd-source with Nahum Tate!

In Which I Put On My Teeth-Kicking Boots

O Jennifer, I'm glad that you're in love
And glad for Melzer, too, but knock it off.
A promise made and kept I am proud of:
If you slack off I kick your teeth and scoff.
It's great to start short stories but more so
To finish them. Now quit blaming your job,
Your dog, your grim apartment and your woe
That Dragons Con without you this year. Sob
When you have finished what you have begun.
And know that I am taking my advice
As well. As acolytes unto the Cult of Done
We must advance. Just think about how nice
'Twill be to have accomplished what we meant.
Such ample dividends on what we've spent!

Friday, September 4, 2009

In Which I Whistle And Scratch A Backstay Just A Bit

My sails are hanging limp, empty, I guess.
I drift in doldrums I have never known
Were on this map. I really must confess:
Sometimes it sucks to be here on my own.
My schedule's changed; a one-day difference
Should not affect me so - I'm at a loss
To find another cause for this real sense
Of stasis, though. Oh, soon, something must cross
My path to wake and stir me. Once, of old
Did sailors whistle, scratch backstays to bring
The wind that moves them onward, I am told;
A superstition to which I might cling
Were I not where I am. Wyoming wind
Is worse than the ennui by which I'm pinned.

Friday Flash: Earth Receives A Memento

Sonneteer's note: this is the fourth installment of my sonnet-by-sonnet summary of a larger work, The Interstellar Feller, to be released sometime next year. To see the story so far, check out Part the Oneth here, Part the Twoth here and Part the Threeth here.

Pepito as a deckhand's comical.
Yectara's crew relieves him of his task
And soon all are aboard her small shuttle,
Each, save Pepito, in an alien mask,
Presenting big-eyed faces to whome'er
Might chance to see them. A great diagram
Is pinned up to the bulkhead. Now with care
Each crewman studies as for an exam,
While soon an earthly field of grain beneath
The shuttle's jets waves. Out the crewmen pour,
Each with a board and ropes and now fan out
To mash down plants precisely. 'Tis their chore.
Yectara minds their efforts, but without
A word they finish. And where they just strode
Pepito's likeness now has an abode.

BONUS SONNET: A Hermit, Humbled

Blood drives have set my social calendar
For too long now, I see, as my worst friend,
Who no longer runs Cheyenne's events -- er...
No longer makes the standard call whose end
Is tapping me, for which the dear still thinks
He needs to ply me with a fun night out
Of catching up, bar trivia and drinks.
He knows better, of course, but now without
That fall-back we have let a month go by.
Today I noticed this and felt bad, so
A bowling night has drawn me out. Now I
Sit in the alley drinking with comrades
And humbled. They forgive me these, my bads.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

In Which A Vibrator Penetrates... A Yeast Cell

To introduce material into
Most things is just a simple matter of
A poke or tease to open them but who
Knew yeast cells were so hard to give some love?
But leave it to a Frenchman, visiting
To find a way to loosen up those cells!
A microfabricator's just the thing,
He found, for penetrating those tough shells.
Did you get so important that smart men
Worked so to build a toy that will allow
Them access to your secrets? Then again,
They just want you to take up what they shoot
Inside you, so the point is rather moot.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

In Which I Have Mixed Feelings That I No Longer Go "Back To School"

September means they're back out on the streets,
School buses lumber back to school. It's fall:
A season's ended. Something each child meets
Is this fate: playtime's over. I recall
A gladness when this time would roll around,
For school was something I always did well,
Though fellow students always did confound
Me and my efforts. Often it was hell.
Each kid feels singled out as somehow wrong,
Not knowing all feel wrong and most just watch
The crowd for cues, and follow the most strong,
Just waiting for that mistimed step or botch
Of ritual to signal who is ripe
To fall. And yes, I was the falling type.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Sonnet Dare: In Which I Sonnetize Under The Influence of Three New Belgium Trippel Ales

A comics shop purveyor helped me start,
This tiny drinking binge, so it is meet
That yet another (Jesse) hit my heart
And dare me to a drunken sonnet. Sweet!
Hub Comics would have been a pilgrimage
Were I still a mad Somervidlian,
But Massachusetts I left. Now my edge
Is honed on my Wyoming life. My pen,
Though, knows no bounds, when I'm in cups
As I am now. It is my Friday night.
O, Lager-Laundry Night! O how your ups
Accompanied by no downs, still delight
Me. Once 'twas Mike Toole and Miss Clayton who,
With anime and suds filled in for brew!

In Which I Dive Into The Story Of The Stone

An image now infests my teeming mind --
Not of the bugs that friends of mine expect,
But just one thing: a stone that one might find
Beside a road somewhere. 'Twas a reject
When Nu-Wa rebuilt heaven, but her hand
Imbued it with rare life. It's not unique
To Western tropes, this notion of the grand
Raised from the lowly, mighty from the weak.
Our psalms make it the capstone; Xuecin Cao
Gives it a soul and sends it through the world
To learn of love and pain and, perhaps, how
To make sense of illusions that have swirled
Around us all, right from our helpless birth.
The Story of the Stone roots me to Earth.