In Which I Thank My Medicine Men

It takes strange tools to patch a torn-up heart,
Takes songs and tales and poetry and play.
Comes time for me to thank those who, in part
Have made or done the things which, I may say,
Have proven the best medicine for me.
Phil Rossi wrote a song that e'en before
The hardest blow came down did help me see
A light at tunnel's end. And there is more:
For Jeremy Shipp's novel did a lot,
As did a poem by Gregory Wright
He wrote just for me, to tell me I'm not
Alone, not even in the darkest night.
Thanks too, to my White Rabbit and John Ladd:
Chess therapy is good, too, when I'm sad.

In Which I Don't Even Try To Dress It Up - I'm Angry And I'm Hurting

A week has passed; my tears have mostly dried

But I am far from healed; I'm angry still.

Still can't quite grasp that Mac Tonnies has died,

Keep watching for him, wond'ring what he will

Dig up for us next. Anger chokes my throat

Each time I look and find him gone again.

Did people in his call center e'er note

Just how remarkable he was? But then

How well do I know my work-mates? Something

Has got to change, to stop, has got to give.

That wondrous Mac went unmissed three days? Bring

Me tissues, please; I'm crying more. We live

In heartless times when how someone's first missed

Is by a distant friend he's never kissed.

Friday Flash: No Return To Mount Shasta Is On The Horizon

Sonneteer's note: this is the tenth 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, Part the Fiveth here, Part the Sexieth here, Part the Seventhuth here, Part the Octthhhh here and Part the Ninth here. Wow!

Awake again and riding on the lines

Of monofilment her thumbs produce,

Yectara listens not unto the whines

Of fear or of concern her crew lets loose.

The navigator jerks when once he knows

His station is her destination. He

Makes weakly his salute and vainly throws

His glance amongst his crewmen but all we

See from them is that special empty stare,

Awaiting further orders from their queen.

"To Epsilon Aurigae we now dare,"

Yectara barks. The navigator's screen

Is quickly tuned to seek out that far star

And all the worlds around it. "There you are."

In Which I Cry Uncle

I couldn't find it, deep beneath the snow

The feeder that the birds and wind knocked down

And buried sometime during last night's blow.

I'm sure it's much the same all over town.

My pupils down to pinpoints in the glare,

My fingers freezing in their gloves, I tried

To dig a path for postmen, cars - I care

That people try to do their jobs despite

Conditions. They were pitiful enough,

My efforts; I could not sustain too much,

Could not draw breath sufficient for the tough,

Laborious removal of, as such

A day's and night's accumulation. I'm

Still dizzy as I type out this here rhyme.

In Which A Snowy Day Sets Me To Dithering

Contrary impulses have seized me, and

I'm transfixed, by the window, in their grips.

I still am sick, could barely lift a hand

To heave and shovel snow - though it's the hips

And legs that should do that work - yet I would

So dearly like to go play in that fresh, white

Inviting snow. My skis are - to the good -

In Saratoga, so that's out. All right

But just a walk? A bike ride? A quick romp

With Molly in the park? I really ought

To stay home and get well at last. I stomp

An angry foot at this, though. Yes, I've got

A poor track record, being sick and then

Undoing efforts to get well again.

In Which I Fidget A Little Over NaNoWriMo

I am a both-feet jumping kind of girl,
As I told a good friend just last week. I
Spoke then of matters other than the whirl
Of furious creation that soon to fly
Into my face: NaNoWriMo doth come!
My life, already out of shape, will warp
Still further, though not quite so much as some:
I have not made an outline, do not sport
So much as one lone character sheet yet.
That feels like cheating, like a lack of trust
In my November self. I shall not get
Into that frenzy 'till I truly must!
Though just here in this sonnet, I'll admit:
My friends who've done so seem prepared as spit!

In Which I Squee For A Wonderful Guy

Today is Seventh Son Day, a long while

In coming. As we watch his numbers rise

With J.C. Hutchins, let us pause and smile

For him and us. At last our poor wee eyes

Partake in what our ears so long have known!

That baby-faced JC is sure no slouch,

That there's no pleasure quite like when our own

Do well. That sprawling out upon the couch

With paperback or Kindle is more fun

When it's a friend in there. Oh, JC, dear!

While Personal Effects was a delight

And brought the chills and of course brought the fear,

It's this one that feels like the triumph of

Your work and friends and all you've come to love!

In Which A Friend Steps Up Into A New Role

John Ladd, I think I'm making a great trade

A column or two for your magazine

(I hope that what I've done do make the grade)

On our poetic, internet-ic scene,

For counseling on my misdeeds in chess!

As coaches go you're patient, funny and

You give me hope that I might blunder less

In future games! Your wish is my command

On future essays. Any you may want,

On any subject for Paradise Tossed,

Is yours! Few are the bloggers who may flaunt

A captive sonneteer so to be bossed!

My gratitude, dear John, for all your aid.

As well for all the practice games we've played!

In Which Al Bruno III Ripens Some

I knew him first just as one Ab3,
An author of a Binder, lo, of Shame.
Such lore of gaming horror could not be
Quite real, I told myself, as I became
A devotee of misadventures like
The Achy Breaky Mythos. "Funny" does
Not e'en come close; today these tales still strike
Right home; my eyes tear up! But all that was
Long years ago. These days he's pioneered
Five-second fiction, sick and wrong and great,
The Third Al Bruno has, and I have cheered
Each new bit of his novel. Lo, that fate
Should bring his lurker, me, to be his friend!
Oh, happy birthday, Al! Days without end!

In Which I Rewrite A Lambert Hendricks & Ross Classic Because I'm Feeling Silly

In order to keep me well on my leash
A threat was made one time to take away
My bottle. You may well imagine - sheesh! -
The furore that ensued. "No!" I did say
Unhand that; 'tis well known I can't get well
Without the fruit of many a fair vine,
Yea even were it only Muscatel
(Though I prefer a somewhat nicer wine).
And though ye may beat my head out of shape
As long as I am left enough to toast
My health and yours, yes, please leave me my grape,
Then truly you may lead me out to roast
In hot sun or on fiery coals, your choice.
With whistle wet you'll barely hear my voice.

In Which I Try To Maintain A Healthy State Of Denial

No, no, that's not me coughing, or at least
Not from a bug or virus; 'tis a mere
Rhetorical device. It has increased
In volume, sure, as I know you can hear.
But I'm not sick. And no, no fever burns
My face and chest; my disposition's warm
By nature. No, just as each season turns
Adjustment's needed to this hardy form
Which I inhabit. What's that? Not a sneeze.
You're quite mistaken. I said you are QUITE
MISTAKEN. Well, a little hoarse, I -- please!
I talk all day to earn my keep. By night-
Fall all that I sometimes have left
Is this wee croak. No, I'm not sick; you're deaf.

Friday Flash: In Which Some Background Info On The Grokulator's Crew Is Gained

Sonneteer's note: this is the ninth 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, Part the Fiveth here, Part the Sexieth here, Part the Seventhuth here and Part the Octthhhh here.

What would Mac Tonnies say were he to learn

How right he'd always been about those who

Have shared our Earth with us thru ev'ry turn

Upon its axis? I most surely do

Assure you that 'twas these, the cacogens,

Who ply their mistress with space smelling-salts

Who did so, in and out of time. Not friends

But neither foes were they, just made their halts,

Between trips in the Grokulator's hold,

Within Mount Shasta, where they kept their watch

Not on us, as we think but on the cold

Deeps of the night sky until that time when

The Grokulator'd make a trip again.

In Which I Discover That Chess Is Good Medicine

I took a duck right to the face today

At two hundred fifty knots, as the meme goes.

My throat's new lump just will not go away,

My heart feels like it's taken thirty blows

From someone's mallet. But a game of chess

Long distance, over slow and thoughtful time

Has proved a worthy cure for my distress,

Reminding me I've partners yet in crime,

E'en though my dear Mac Tonnies cannot be

Among their number anymore. Each move

Captures my thoughts, attention, makes me see

More possibilities and does much to improve

My frame of mind, to have it well-engaged.

Thanks to my friend for this small war we've waged.

R.I.P., Mac Tonnies

Standing next to a fuse-box, originally uploaded by Mac Tonnies.

Mac Tonnies, how I longed one day to meet
And talk with you directly. I've admired
Your books and blog and links. Your ev'ry tweet
Brought strange new wonders. You knew you'd inspired
A lot of my big project. I'm so glad
I told you this and shared with you my plans
Which you refined and cheered on. Now, well, "sad"
Is quite inadequate. Among your fans
Your voice, it will be missed - by ev'ry one
Who wants to take enigmas with more than
A grain of salt and not make woo-woo fun
But really try improving the slight span
Of knowledge that we have of what's beyond.
I'm devastated, Mac, that you are gone.

In Which My Thoughts Go Round And Round Like Deep Blue's Wheels

I'm restless. I've had quite an afternoon,

With much occurring and yet naught at all.

The tension's built up too much and so soon

I've got to let it out. My bike doth call.

What did I ever do before Deep Blue

When situations rose that drove me nuts?

I no longer remember, have no clue

Just how I used to pull myself from ruts.

My bicycle and sonnets rule my days.

'Tis discipline, I think, which is all good

But days like this I feel somewhat enslaved

To both, but realize, try as I would

That habits, good, or bad, govern me still

I only think I've something like free will.

In Which John Roling Takes His Turn In The Birthday Barrel

John Roling, how I met you makes me laugh.

I don't recall just why, but some of us

Had come up with the zany, made and half-

Baked notion what was needed one day was

A pic of Oliveri all in drag.

Demurred he did, but told us all to look

At some twitpic in which, per that there tag

You rocked the Hooter's girl costume and took

The prize. I knew that any crazed and brave

Such soul must be my friend, and now you are.

Delightful man, who showed me how to save

Myself and friends from choosing a cigar

We'll hate. And it's your birthday now, today.

O Greyhawk68, enjoy your day!

In Which Wintry Weather Makes Me Reflect

I am no Bonaparte; my armies fight

Their best in winter's snows and wind and cold.

Alone I stand out in the freezing night

And look up at the stars and feel how old

This world is and is not. Dichotomies

Like these are occupying me of late.

I'm of the cast of mind such that it please,

Not anger me to sit and contemplate,

While crystals made of ice pummel and sting

My face, how things and people never are

As simple as they seem. Each little thing

They do results from infinite, bizarre

Tempestuous processes, chaos-tossed

Until at last they're frozen fast as frost.

In Which 2012 Hoaxers Have More To Answer For And A Clarion Call To Party Is Made

OR, I'm Not Crazy, I Just Want To Be Famous Before The Lizard People Get Me

I should not be surprised that Richard Heene
Believes 2012 will be the end
Of everything, and wanted some more screen
Time ere it all went down. But as my friend
The Astroengine says, be grateful for
Such nutters and the fodder they provide
For bloggers and for skeptics. I want more!
We've two years ere the epic and worldwide
And non-event takes place. Meanwhile we must
Put on our party-planning hats: 12/22
Of that fine year: Chichen Itza or bust!
When ev'ry skeptic who has any clue
Must gather, drink and dance and launch balloons.
I'll bring the sake. Ian, do the tunes?

In Which Cheyenne Becomes A Hipper Place And I A Happier Cheyenneian

Cheyenne's martini bar is quite a place,

Suite 1901, in the Frontier shack

Downtown. The drinks alone will melt your face,

So good they are; nor is there any lack

Of other blandishments for such as I.

We missed the live bluesman who played last night,

But won't again, myself and funny, spry

Melissa. Owner John, to my delight

Says he has plans for tunes five nights a week.

There's only one TV and that is small,

And the decor? Quite tasteful, smooth and sleek

Mid-century modern - that's my fav'rite! Call

Me anytime, you locals, when you go

My second home awaits me there, you know.

In Which I Prepare To Cheat On My Love

Comes now the news: Deep Blue needs a new wheel,
Which won't be here 'till Thursday or perhaps
Wednesday if I am lucky. Do I feel
That way? I don't, not since my crash. Those chaps
At Rock on Wheels at least have found a way
To cheer me some: a loaner bike awaits
At yonder store. I feel that I betray
My love a bit, but man, I've got the shakes.
My bicycle is more than just my friend,
My ride to work, it's, too, my therapist,
Without whom I have gone right 'round the bend
Especially since fine weather does persist
That beckons so, a cyclists' siren song
I can't resist. Please tell me: is it wrong?

In Which I, Too, Feel I Am Getting Older

A party girl I've never really been.
I'll go out now and then to see what's new,
But generally I'm the type who's seen
Off in the corner, a good friend or two,
Sometimes a small crowd, list'ning to my tales
And telling theirs. But last night found me out
In noise among the hip-hop crowd. Details
Don't matter overly. We had to shout
To be heard, and the tunes were all the same,
Some chanting, thumping bass, an endless drone.
These days, to me, what music's worth the name
Needs more than just a heartbeat. On my own
I pine for something somewhat more complex
That makes imagination stretch and flex.

In Which More Birthday Greetings Are Extended

Steve Kastner, what a long friendship we've had
Since we were sixteen years of age and we
Were turned loose at UW. Too bad
It's been so long since we've managed to see
Each other. Since your wedding, I believe?
And now you and our Shannon have two sons!
Do rest assured on this, your birthday, Steve
That never will they know from me our runs
To fetch non-dairy creamer late at night
And light it off like hairspray -- unless you
Have told them this already. May delight
In fam'ly life and travel continue.
Here's hoping that your birthday, Steve, is swell
And that fair San Francisco treats you well.

In Which I Plea For Less Talk Of Pus

'Tis hunting season. We know what that means:
Blaze orange clothes and hats, and pickup loads
Of animals and parts thereof, and scenes
Of game wardens beheading, 'longside roads
(To check for chronic wasting disease signs),
The newly-harvested elk, moose and deer
And checking paperwork, issuing fines
As needed. Then there's something that I fear
Most deeply, though my stomach's truly strong
(A fancier of insects needs one such):
That's graphic talk of wounds and pus and wrong
And pungent smells from parasites. Too much
Of that talk always makes me ill, yet lo:
It is my fate to hear it, ever so.

BONUS SONNET: SONNET DARE: Another One Bites The Dust

So warily does Steve walk down the street,
His hat brim pulled down low over his eyes,
That one might well guess that he's packing heat.
It's all good fun until somebody dies.
Let fly some bullets from a doorway; rip
They do through all, and one more bites
The dust, as oft is said by those real hip
Cats Freddy Mercury sang for. Such sights
Are common in Steve's world. They rip again,
As though to some drum beat, and, oh, these plays
Must end in blood; revenge is best served when
One has been cheated, beaten, left for days
As Steve has surely been. There goes one more
And sure more violence must lie in store.

BONUS BONUS SONNET: Sonnet Dare: David Bowie's "Queen Bitch"

From the eleventh floor my envy burns
As I watch that rare queen ply all her arts
To snare one that my shallow weakness spurns
To go after myself. She's broken hearts
A-plenty before now; tonight it's mine
Though it is not her that I want, but him.
Just watch her go in satin tat so fine
And bipp'ry-bopp'ry topper with a brim
I'd laugh at were I not at heart so sick -
I'm sure I could exceed her in her deeds
Of conquest were I to make e'en a lick
Of effort just to plant down there the seeds
Of lust for me instead of her? But no
I hang back longingly and watch her go.

BONUS SONNET: SONNET DARE: Killing Me Kindly

Keep coming with the sonnet dares, my friends,
Like kooky Stephan Spiegel's done, in spades.
He knows I like a challenge, one that bends
My ingenuity and kills time. Shades
Of kings of old and court poets now haunt
My ken as I discharge this commission:
Its key is using "k" words on this jaunt
Through sonnet-land in each line. Kids, I've gone
Right out to lunch with this one. Karma claims
He owes me extra big for this big killer dare.
Take up the ukelele? Let the names
Of all his children be my pick? What's fair?
For now I'll blow a kiss his silly way
In thanks for what has surely made my day.

SONNET DARE: In Vedauwoo Or Denver, I Get Lost

While both are places I've been known to roam
With more than one six-pack of Guinness, one
I much prefer; it's closer to my home,
And lovelier by far in morning sun
Or eve'ning starlight: that is Vedauwoo.
In Denver's traffic I am always lost
Unless on foot on Sixteenth Street - though, too
I'm often lost in thought and at great cost
There, with the Wazee Supper Club and, yes,
The Tattered Cover, wallet beaters both.
As for the Mile High City in my car?
I'm hopeless. Better for me, by my oath
To climb on rocks and up there drink my beer,
And take in all the silence I don't hear.

Friday Flash: Good News Or Bad?

Sonneteer's note: this is the eighth 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, Part the Fiveth here, Part the Sexieth here and Part the Seventhuth here.

Pepito stands by, puzzled, bald and mute -

His portrait made him notice he's no hair -

While 'round him gathers cacogens, acute

Embarrassment just hanging in the air

As Queen Yectara takes it in the brain

From someone she respects as overlord,

Her face a mask of -- pleasure? or of pain?

It's hard to tell -- while ev'ryone aboard

Waits breathlessly. At last she gives a yelp

And looks like she'll collapse into a faint

Pepito tries to rush to offer help

But agile yet in zero-gee he ain't.

He overshoots and slams 'gainst a bulkhead.

Yectara floats unconscious - maybe dead.

In Which I Muse On A Boy And A Balloon

So really, who's surprised there was no boy

Aloft in that great mylar sausage which

Went drifting just today? A mere decoy

Some cried, just to seduce us, just to switch

Attention from the issues of the day.

So Falcon Heene, son of a wife-swap team

Who also chases storms, betook to play

A joke of which a Cliff Irving might dream.

So what? We take diversion where we can

Amidst this vale of foolishness, don't we?

Now I, for one, felt envy; I'm a fan

Of soundless balloon flight. Had I been he

I would have been aboard, and prob'ly dead

From crashing down and landing on my head.

In Which Further Rage Is Vented

Construction as you know has quite f'd up

The only way out of my neighborhood

Into the rest of Cheyenne. Now I sup

On still more rage, though I know I'm as good

For blaming as the red and white Ford truck

That just plowed into Deep Blue's back tire when

I dared to cross the street where he was stuck

A-waiting his next chance to join again

The greater stream of traffic. I did think

He'd waved me on across like a good guy

But then he lurched. I stopped just on the brink

Of getting fully hit -- don't want to die

Just when things in my life are looking well

But how I wish that driver were in hell.

In Which I Shake My Fist At The Construction Gods

Dell Range at my end is right now a maze

Of cones and barrels and ugly VM signs.

I'm to the east, so should I get a craze

To go somewhere on business, my designs

Do force always a left turn, which is hard

Enough against the traffic when there's not

Construction out there. I am often barred

From moving as the minutes tick. I've got

A store of patience, but it sure wears thin

Now that the traffic's down to just two lanes

And those so hard to see. A hot place in

Street planning hell awaits, with bright orange chains

For those who made this happen, I decree.

Of course, I know that's not quite up to me.

BONUS BONUS SONNET: In Which I Reflect On My First Way After Hours Bike Commute

At 1 A.M. the city of Cheyenne
Belongs to me and Deep Blue, it appears.
My only obstacle - the odd trash can
Placed in the bike lane - merely draws my sneers.
I'm warmly dressed and ride into the fog,
And crow along with Kurt Elling's best song
With fear of neither emo kid nor dog
To trip me up, whatever could go wrong?
I pedal happily, look 'round and sing
Right at the top of tired lungs with Kurt.
But mind the ice, Kate, on the streets - one thing
I can't dismiss. A wipe-out would sure hurt!
And just between us two, O reader mine,
Jaybiking 'gainst the traffic lights is fine!

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Look Towards A Month Of Madness

October's near its midway point which means
A special month approaches - very fast.
My friends and I, oh such writing machines
Already, now prepare for that great blast
Of scribbling fury that's NaNoWriMo.
I have the germ of an idea in place
Thanks to a crazed white rabbit who with so
Small effort tossed it my way that my face
Just melted. Now I roar out: bring it on!
And hope that all of you will do so, too.
It's crazy and hard work but once it's gone
We have rare prizes, each: one bright, brand new,
If roughly written, novel, and the pride
Of finishing a project (somewhat fried).

In Which A Power Failure Gives Me Pause

A power failure, but in far from black

Do I sit here; the glare from off the snow

Lights up my house so I squint. I could track

The world outside: A hand-cranked radio

Sits here. Instead I peer deep down inside

And let myself feel all that's going on,

What is and what could be. I cannot hide

In shadows on a day like this. I'll don

Soon coat and boots, my new sunglasses, and

Ride on Deep Blue to where my work awaits,

But now my pen and Field Notes guide my hand

To lead me to some stillness. 'Tis the Fates,

Not I, who should be brooding. Let it be.

There's nothing I can do but wait and see.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Give Myself Very Good Advice

Once in a while, I find something so good

My whole life brightens up as a result.

Once that occurs, I find, try as I would

I can't contain the urge to just exult

In ev'ry moment, how things might have changed.

But patience counsels that I halt my song

Until some other things are so arranged

That I am not rejoicing in a wrong

That I'll regret for life. This kind of hurts,

Especially since I don't get to decide

Unless my choice is walking, which subverts

My ev'ry instinct; too much skin, I find

Is in this game. I tell myself, once more

That some things are worth waiting mutely for.

In Which I Take Deep Blue Through His Snowy Predawn Paces

I'm not the first to ride my bike in snow --
I'm sure in China it's done ev'ry day --
But still I feel that I've the right to crow
A little bit. I knew that I could stay
At home a little longer and just drive
To work this morning; everybody does.
That doesn't jibe, though with my mojo, style,
Or mental illness (names vary): I was
Determined to keep pedaling and know
That once I wimped out one day I was done.
So off I went, a cycling Eskimo,
And truly, I must say that I had fun,
My teeth set in a grin few could surpass.
No wonder Brent said that I'm #purebadass!

In Which More Tweet-Ups Fill Me With Joy

Sonneteer's note: this looks like I finally missed a day but I assure you I did not. This sonnet was crafted long hand in my autumn red FIELD NOTES at Chicago's otherwise nifty Midway Airport, where I could not get a wi-fi signal for the life of me. Then there was no time between landing and catching the shuttle in Denver. But I don't have to convince you; I know I got the thing done at the proper time today (and it's still today until I go to bed) and that's what matters. Thank you.

Lost in meat-space I have most surely been.

Chicagoland bewilders me entire,

Each day delivered to another friend

To set my heart and spirit right on fire.

And through it all, my oldest pal, dear Mark

And his Nicole took such good care of me

That ne'er I noticed really just how stark

My lack of knowledge of this place must be.

Now back to Denver, quickly, must I fly,

And leave bits of my heart in keeping of

Mike Oliveri, John Rolin, Boogeur,

That A.N. Ommus, Lethe Bashar, my love

With Teia Hassey, Canter, Zchizz, oo-er,

And all the other Bhtches. I have found,

Though, that I've quite enough to go around.

In Which I Reflect On The Best Gig Ever

Untold volumes of Guinness went down well,

Untold gyrations on my part took place

At my best bud's live gig. I cannot tell

How long 'twill be before my smiling face

Will unfreeze from its happy rictus, or

When my poor throat will heal from screaming, "Hey!

I want to hear Hangover Head." What's more

I danced hard, did shots, wrote a song. I'd say

Last night was a resounding success. Zound,

You Bhtches! Try to top that, if you can!

You all were spot on in your parts and sound --

Oh, sound! There's nothing like a ten-year span

For mastering your instruments and rigs.

Here's hoping 'twas the first of many gigs.

BONUS SONNET: With Buzz And Gravy Of A Friday Evening

It's evening at the Casa del Blow. I

Watch Old Man Buzz, the Blowman's Therabee

Go round and round and laugh. The hours fly

As Mrs. Blow, the Gravybhtch, joins me

In drooling o'er a stove, shiny and new

Which came today (yes, we've got oven porn).

I laugh at Buzz's toy, yet wonder -- ooh!

Next month, when I embark, as I have sworn

To write my NaNoWriMo, using that

Beloved white Olympia portable

Typewriter you see pictured up there at

The top of this page, might my hands cramp up?

Some exercise for them might help ramp up.

In Which The Gig Is Tonight! Tonight! Tonight!

Tonight's the night I've waited for so long,

Bhtch Comes Alive tonight at the Morseland!

And while I don't think I will hear a song

I wrote for them, I know that this here band

Will rock the socks right off my dancing feet

(Though that's not hard; I do eschew those things)

And make me laugh like new again. Too sweet

'Twill be to hear again how Brickyard sings,

The Blowman on guitar, Hairbo on bass,

Our Chickenshake on chickenshake, and, too,

The Killer Queen on drums and then - my face! -

Toupacque Bougeur as well. It has been too,

Yes far too long since such has been my chance.

All hail for me this happy circumstance!

Friday Flash: In Which Expectations May Differ Slightly

Sonneteer's note: this is the seventh 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, Part the Fiveth here, Part the Sexieth here.

What would Pepito think if he but knew

Of all the rank commotion left behind

On Earth by his desertion? But no clue

Would seem to cross his stunned, delighted mind.

Whisked off again in his Yectara's ship,

He's thinking of the future, not the past.

Yectara, meanwhile, planning their next trip

Must stop and answer to the boss at last

(For though a cyborg pirate queen, our girl

Is also part of a much larger team).

"Yectara," says a voice that makes her twirl

'Round in the captain's seat, fire up a beam

Of purest information for her head

And wait to hear what's wanted next with dread.

In Which An Epic Tweet-Up Occurs

Imaginary friends sometimes are not

Unreal, as I've discovered on this date.

Both @vinamist - who I must say has got

More going on than one might estimate

From her scant tweets - and @blogofinnocence,

Who's all over the map, are both right here

In Argo Tea with me. In their defense

I couldn't make them up; that's pretty clear.

Such friendship as we've found does not on place

Depend, but I will say it sure is nice

To put the Twitter name and Twitter face

To flesh and blood and voice. So my advice:

An online friend's a lovely thing to gain

But lovelier to make one real and plain.

In Which I Find A Sliver Of Jack Kerouac's Denver On Concourse A

This airport bar reminds me just a bit

Of what an Amtrak bar car used to be.

Two random music guys happen to sit

Right down there on the barstools next to me.

The barmaid pushes local whiskey and

We try it, laughing at the tasting notes,

And Stranahan's would seem to be the brand

(Though a bit sweet, if 'mong the counted votes

Are mine -- it's like a highball, I would say

Though I knew not that Colorado streams

Ran clear with 7UP, but that's the way

The real world works -- far stranger than my dreams.

That's how good times occur with Steve and Wes.

One never knows what's coming up, I guess.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Sonnetize Under The Influence

No sleep today, and down a pint of blood,
Six hours and a half till I can go
Back to my home -- by car! -- no flecks of mud
Upon my naked shins, no telltale glow
Across my face from happy bike commute,
I'm witless, all cognitive dissonance
And everything I hear sounds such a hoot
I giggle like a stoner. Grateful chance
Has me here in a workspace by myself
Lest others think the daughter of the vine
Hath plied me too much with our fav'rite juice.
Across the fishbowl's glass, beyond the shine
Of glare I see the Twins and Tigers duke it out
But can't make out who's winning, but don't pout.

In Which Sleep Is Proven A Questing Beast And I No Pellinore

Requirements of the service, lo, have bid

That Tuesdays I work nights in this month. Lo:

I bow my head to this, but flip my lid

At what else this foul day has wrought, and so

Sit up when I should still be fast asleep.

My house's new roof had some flaws, and rain

Was coming through the ceiling. It would keep

On doing so till fixed. My quest became

To get this repair done ere winter's snows.

Success, at last, is mine, but why today?

Just as a pleasant dream ramped up, here shows

Up all the crew with power tools and, hey,

With noise and strangers fill my afternoon

And morning, too. Quick, hand me the harpoon.

In Which I Celebrate An Instrument And Drop A Subtle Hint

Just yesterday I overdid my ride
Home from my job, on my own dear Deep Blue,
Despite the cold wet drizzle that sure tried
To get me down. But I just sailed on through
An extra five or six miles, rocking out
To Beau Jocque and to ol' C.J. Chenier
And Beausoleil! An iPod that's without
Accordion is one devoid of cheer,
I say, and I know one who'd quite agree:
Stephan Spiegel, my fav'rite troubadour
On squeezebox and on mandolin though we
Have yet to hear him play. I do wait for
A Ustream concert soon. What do you say,
My sweet Stephan? It sure would make my day!

Lines Written On The Near Achievement Of A Goal

I wanted to be done so long ago,
But something 'bout this work just held me back.
It's what I've always wanted, this, although
I think perhaps my disbelief, that crack
That ruins oh so many tow'rs of dreams,
Kept me from making progress. No, this can't
Be really taking place - it only seems
That way, deluded girl. But now the chant
Of friends and loved ones as I now draw near
The finish line "Go, Kate" e'en as I trip
Drowns out that tiny voice that speaks my fear.
And even when, this once again, I slip
Friends new and old reach out; uncounted hands
Catch me before I fall. And so, this stands.

In Which I Unwittingly Fight A Bungie Cord And The Bungie Wins

On pre-dawn bike trips many hazards loom --
Both real and real imaginary; some
Are naught but shadows; others, in the gloom,
May look like lurking muggers, but just dumb,
Mute signposts stand there when I'm close enough
To make that out. I know this and prepare
Each morn for that frisson. But other stuff
No mental calisthenics can, I swear,
Quite make predictable. Of course, in part
'Tis,too, my fault for moongazing right where
A vicious bungie cord (curse the black heart
Of he who left it; may he wind up there
In trailer park hell where such boobs belong)
Reached up and caught my wheel and all went wrong.

In Which I Take My Last Road Trip Over The Range

The road will likely close soon for the year,

Wyoming 130 across the Range

Called Snowy, and it will do so, I fear

Before I may return to it. So strange

Today to see the aspens' hues in gold

And snow accumulated on the ground.

This last trip's memories will have to hold

Me till next spring. I rolled my windows down

Despite the cold, to let in those last smells

For my and Molly's pleasure, let my eyes

Go all unshaded, killed the radio. Spells

Of purest bliss would take me. Such good-byes

Are for all of the senses. But hellos

Await me, too, ahead, in winter's snows.

BONUS SONNET: On Surprises, Pleasant And Strange

Sometimes, leaving the house, I wind up late,
For at that final moment, it turns out
My keys are in my pocket because Fate,
That fickle-fingered bitch goddess -- don't shout
Such things, Kate -- has decreed that I forget
Just where I laid them down, or that I've got
Them in my hand already. Stranger yet:
It's so with people, too, it seems. I'd not
Believe there's anyone around who'd share
My joy in some outlandish thing, my rapt
Attention on a small surprise. Then there
Upon one of my shoulders comes a tap,
And lo, right next to me, a beaming smile
Lets me know I've had comp'ny all the while.

All In A Saratoga Morning

I've had sufficient coffee not to sleep
Until around this week next time, I think.
I'm glad I've still the skills that let me leap
From coffee klatsch to coffee klatsch and drink
Such copious quantities with ne'er a stop.
First my old man and his old friends with whom
I dip back into politics, then drop
On by another bar, there to consume
With my small hot chick posse a bit more.
Then coffee with my lunch, then the salon:
A cut and color genius has in store
A bold new plan for my look. Foiled and on
The fumes of haute hair product, I admire
The stylist's hunting pictures. They inspire!