In Which Old Friendship Stays Deep: @Globetrot and @ShannonKastner And Me

Oh, how did sixteen years go quickly by
Without the sight of this pair? They are two
Of my most cherished friends. I did rely
On both of them to keep me sane -- lo, youth
Is not so kind to geeks in rednecked lands,
And we had vast and empty spaces 'tween
Our tiny towns. Someone who understands
That knowledge is its own fun, has a keen
And lively int'rest in the world beyond
Wyoming can get lonely, might go mad.
But Shannon and her Steven, of such fond,
Untarnish'd mem'ry made things not so bad.
We kept in touch and last night I refreshed
My eyes and spirit with them, and feel blessed.

In Which I Try To Offer Some Comfort

I wish that I could give you all a hug,
Around the world and missing Chris; you know
You're not alone, don't you? I'd feel a slug
If I did not remind you of this, though.
We each of us have in our memories
A version of him, know what he would do.
It seems unfair that, despite any pleas
We're never going to have from him a new
Perspective, essay, or idea to play
Around with or to share, but ev'ryone
Can take up just a piece of what we'd say
Was his responsibility, begun
But now unfinished. Set your shoulders square
And ponder on what you can, if you dare.

Interstellar Feller: In Which The Grokulator Is Marooned?

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

Controls are fried! The ship is dead in space!
And if we may remind you, no one knows
Just where or when it is in the first place.
That Field Maneuver -- randomly it goes
Through all dimensions. That's how it escapes
The Grokulator's foes. Now it's adrift
Around that unnamed planet. Only shapes
And muted colors can be seen. But swift!
Pepito launches deep into the gloom
Aboard the good ship's bridge, unerring, sure,
As if he knew just how to stave off doom
And silence all the klaxons. Seems his cure
Did more than just revive him! Now he grabs
A console wire, poised o'er his flesh, and jabs!

Sonnet Dare: For @RitaJKing: In Which I Ponder Loveland

"Inchvesting" is a most unusual term,
But 'tis a far from ordinary age,
As Rita tells us, and I must affirm
What she imagines jumps up off the page
And, maybe, soon will change our world and stop
Th'entropy that's making of Detroit
An urban ghost town. Yet there's hope: a crop
Of dreamers dare, with notions most adroit
And open-ended, to seek out a way
(Or many, really) to re-use the space
That industry's abandoned. Who's to say
That they will not succeed? And in their place
Could you do better? Well, here's your big chance:
A dollar buys an inch of land. Advance!

In Which We Lose Another - R.I.P. Chris Al-Aswad, aka Lethe Bashar

I first found Chris -- or should say, he found me

On Twitter, of course. That is where great minds

Who think alike unite, these days. Valery,

That symbolist and poet -- such rare finds

Are people who know of him or will ask

When reference is made -- and so began

A strange collaboration. Each new task

We gave each other showed more of the man

Behind the pseudonym. Feverish, bright

And willing the world to be a bit more

Like that he found in books and paintings. Slight

Here is my praise; the shock's too new. If you're

Of any mind to see what he could do

Check out his novel. Chris, I shall miss you.

In Which... I'm Not Sure In Which

The sky is grey and dark, the wind blows strong,

And I'm reminded once again that we

Have little time, although one's life seems long

When stuck within a cubicle. I see

An endless round of chores just to maintain

My place within this world and keep it whole,

Whene'er I look ahead. "Oh, what a pain,"

I say, when I'm not thinking. What's my role

Outside of this, though? What am I to do?

Keep writing lines like these? Is that enough?

It must be, for it brought me all of you,

And I don't take for granted all the stuff

You bring to me. Don't ever think so, please.

We're all here for each other's help and ease.

In Which I Gloat Over A Partial Success And Reflect On The Character Flaw It Revealed

Were I as patient with my fellow man

As I am with a motherboard, some screws,

A graphics card, a processor, a fan

(Or three), it's very possible I'd choose

To be a social worker. As it is,

Deep breathing only and a will to try

Again when tiny screws were dropped -- such biz

As this and only this sufficed. Oh my,

I won't say it was easy; I've not built

A PC since the early nineties. Plus,

'Tis far from over yet. All still could tilt

When I first turn it on and have to fuss

With BIOS settings, for, you see, I will

Be making this a Hackintosh. The thrill!

In Which I Am Tired But Happy

Today flew by, bewildering and fast,

But I have much to show for it, for once

In serious and laudable contrast

To other days when I have, like a dunce

Allowed my time to flee without control.

I chose each moment's occupation, did

Precisely what I sought to, on the whole,

So much so that I've carpal pain. I'm rid,

Though, of that nagging panic I can't name

But all my dear ones recognize. This price

I gladly pay, to keep my conscience tame,

Though doing what I've done's not my advice

To others. Do a little bit each day

And you won't have to spend one in this way.

In Which I Confront A Happy Problem

My pull list's awesomeness can't be denied.
When I sit down each month to see what's new
Within the Diamond PREVIEW BOOK, I've tried
To find the good stuff only, and I do
For the most part. There's still a challenge, though:
So many comic books and so few hours
In which to read them all! And, as you know
Life throws my way things quite beyond my pow'rs
To decently avoid. I'm thus behind
On reading, oh so many floppies! There,
However, is a compensation: kind
Fate sometimes really is, for when I spare
A day or to to catch up, hey, at least
Cliffhangers pay off instantly. A feast!

In Which I Vent A Little Resentment

Some days, the walls close in and I don't think
I'll ever finish what I must, again.
Some days just pass right by me in a blink,
With naught accomplished. It's at such times, when
My promises heap high, as do my needs,
Just when I'm powerless to make things so,
And more rebukes grow tall like backyard weeds.
Life's short, uncertain; all of this I know.
What's gone unfinished just might well remain
That way. My chest grows tight, my face goes red
Each time another chore comes up to drain
The energy I dearly hoped to spend
On my own projects, when my time is mine
Again. But I'm employed; I should not whine.

In Which I Hope This Helps @Melzer and @Jennybeanses

Two friends of mine are really in a fix.
American, Canadian, in love
And hoping soon to marry, but the licks
We all have taken now have taken of
Their hopeful plans a dreadful and harsh bite:
They're writers, both, and working really hard,
But hard work's not enough for such a plight
As theirs is; their employer's slight regard
Was not enough to keep them on, and so
E'en as they try to save that he may come
And legally live with her (which we know
Costs lots of money) -- this is dumb
They're back to where they started. If you can,
Chip in and help our Jenny get her man.

(Sonneteer's note: I'm a huge fan of this pair -- Jennifer "Jennybeanses" Hudock and James Melzer. They're both podcast novelists who have given away their major works for free via Podiobooks.com. James' first book, ESCAPE: A Zombie Chronicles novel, comes out in print next March from Permuted Press/Pocket Books but that's a long way off. My point is, they're busting tail to entertain and make a living and be together, and if anyone deserves a little support, it's these two. Thanks!)

In Which I Wish Our Own @Syllver Many Happy Returns

E-sisters are a treasure, this we know
Who tweet or talk online in other ways.
So when one of them has a birthday, though
She might not relish it, I feel a craze
To tease her in a verse or two, right here.
Our Sylvie-Anne, so busy, sprightly, and
With such good taste in entertainment, dear,
Nobody rocks a hat like you, or can
Be quite as old as you now are, today
(I said I would be teasing, didn't I?).
You wear it well, and raise great kids, I'll say,
All while you carry off that groovy style
And game on through your days and nights -- what fun!
I hope your birthday is a happy one!

The Interstellar Feller: In Which Yectara Has Hopes

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

This lordly Pepi's really something new!
Yectara's toes curl up on his advance
Toward the bridge. Far from becoming blue,
She now sees that a whole new, hot romance
Is in the offing, if she can but keep
Pepito's wild libido focused on
Her steely charms. Her bag of tricks is deep
And she has made good use of ev'ry dawn
When he has wakened in the usual state
In which a manly man does, so she bides
Her time and wiles, preparing now to wait
And see what Pepi does. Meanwhile, besides
This resurrection, much has gone amiss
Upon the Grokulator. Must fix this!

In Which I Give A Shout Out To My Favorite Blog, @BikeSnobNYC

There's lots of good stuff on the internet,
Green gadget news, muckraking, stories for
'Most every taste and temperament. Forget
All those, though, there is one with LOLZ galore
With which I cannot pass a dull weekday:
O BikeSnob NYC, you harken to
Jacopo Belbo, who would always say
"Take out the cork" to one who did imbue
Too much importance in his speech or thought.
Bike culture's smugness clouds the clearest sky,
But it's just funny when we all have got
This kind of mockery on tap. This guy
Would mock me, too, I'm sure, to see me ride
Deep Blue to work each morning. I'll abide.

In Which I Am Intimidated By My RSS Feed

A shift-work weekend, mostly AFK

(So much so that e'en posting sonnets was

A challenge), means that it's no stretch to say

I've missed out on an awful lot of buzz.

I've strayed quite far from checking, for the news,

Mass broadcasts, TV, radio or those

Quite hoary, silly newspapers; I choose

Instead, when curious, to stick my nose

Deep in my RSS feeds where I get

More news that int'rests me, in much more depth.

The only problem comes for all, I'll bet:

When I'm out living life in all its breadth

And not chained to a gadget, it piles high.

I fear just now to check what waits my eye.

In Which Tired Kate Is Tired

Good friends are those with whom one stays up late
And then one rises early to rejoin
(No wait, tis those one classifies as great,
As they repay one's love with their best coin:
More of the same!), but it do take a toll,
This sleeplessness in service of good talk
And food and good cigars. That's how we roll,
Though, when we're all together, when we walk

All over Saratoga, when we've got
A guest as well! We shake out and let spread
Our thickest, finest carpet, pour a lot
Of wine that's equally as deep a red...

And now my friend is back out on his way.

I can but yawn. "Good night" is all I'll say.

In Which I Gloat Over The Riches That Are Mine

Sunset, but which direction is true west?
It must be Saratoga, where you've stopped.
The sky aflame in all directions, best
Observed when slightly sloshed (or if you've dropped
Some ice cream down your cleavage and a lab
Awaits to lick it off -- or both; best not
To be too choosy). Even when it's drab
With just a dozen shades of fire, you've got
To let the awe take over. Such has passed
This day in my hometown, spent with a friend
From far away, who's seeing it new, a cast
Of good old pals alongside. Now I'll spend
A quiet ev'ning by the river. How
I wish you all could be with us right now.

Daytripper: In Which A Comic Makes Me Cry

I almost missed Daytripper, and must praise
My good friend P.J., comic pusher, who
Knows me so well, directing my wild gaze
Towards this most wondrous work. I cannot do
It justice in these lines, this trip through one
Small, lovely life. This writer, Bras, learns just
How precious it all is before it's done,
But being human as we all are, must
Repeat this lesson often. Issue Eight
Shows us a Bras-shaped hole and teaches how
He tries his best to fill it, though his fate
Might not allow it. Ba and Moon are now
Both in my bad books, causing me to cry,
And in my estimation, very high.

In Which I Am Slightly Handicapped

Some metal and some velcro form a case
Of fabric 'round my wrist which I dislike,
Though it's for my own good -- this I must face
Each time it hits the wrong key and a spike
Of rage appears within my cranky brain.
I've logged off in the midst of taking down
Important words, and unexpected pain
Has made me use the language on which frown
My overlords. But all could be much worse!
Naught's broken and the dominant's intact
(My left is caged; the right is free). I nurse
No grudges, though it's true I oft react
As though I did. I simply must wait for
These tissues to heal up, and nothing more.

In Which I Have A Strange Experience At The Movies

The power of suggestion's mighty strong --

Or else no film would ever work on us,

To say naught of how well we're strung along

When such a meta-movie comes. A plus:

There's lots of ways to watch this one, I'd say.

INCEPTION as an allegory, or

A comment on how easily we may

Be led to think our ideas our own, for

Such things are viral, subtle. Just whose dream

Do we think that we're watching? I, for one,

Found that I had my own within (a theme

To which it drew attention was no fun

For me; I know that grief): a phantom friend

Sat with me, held my hand until the end.

The Interstellar Feller: In Which A Mistake Is Recognized

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

As they proceed, Pepito pulls up short,
Looks back at his Yectara, pulls a face
And sighs. Before Yectara can retort --
He left her with a voice, of course -- in place
Of pride, determination, now appears
A look of rueful shame. He checks her throat
And finds the damage truly done. For years
Her crew has done her bidding on this boat
Because she's made obedience delight.
How now to keep the order? Pepi should
Have taken on her module. None too bright
To just destroy it, though perhaps 'tis good
To give the cacogens free will again.
We'll shortly see if he can govern them...

In Which I Rant A Little About A Stupid News Story

"Dude, listen to this; it will get you high!"
"What? I can't hear you; my drugs are too loud!"
"These beats make me like Lucy in the sky!"
Oh, crap like this just really makes me proud
That I was ever in the fourth estate,
With off'rings such as this still getting seen
And taken with such seriousness. It's great
To see how science education's been
Successful. Guys, e'en if it's proven true
That these binaural beats can change the waves
Of someone's brain, that's nothing. Pull on through
The water with a paddle: it behaves
Perhaps as though a boat traversed it, but
You didn't make a boat appear, you nut.

In Which I Celebrate An Unfairly Maligned Household Fixture

Though you are not beloved on Changing Rooms
Or other decorator combat shows
For my part, when I look and see what looms
Above my head, and feel the air it blows
Down from my ceiling I think "must install
In ev'ry room." The KATE STATION stays cool
Most of the time, but when most or when all
My day's been spent outdoors, this roasting fool
Still needs what only ceiling fans provide:
White noise and circulated air. You'd make
Your last mistake, yes ever if you tried,
No matter with what arguments, to take
These from me. Enervated, I could still
Track down a hitman, tell him whom to kill.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

In Which I Sneak A Sonnet From Seat Fourteen

A brand new pencil's just a silly thing,

But it can bring such happiness! Fresh, sharp

And smelling so of wood. I gladly cling

To simple pleasures such as these, apart

From my familiar hominess. My hand

Curls round it, a new friend, so like the old

And well-used ones I left behind -- that grand

And horrid rush to be on time. Behold:

'Tis here and waiting for me, wearing down

In service of these lines. I'm ne'er alone

Though far from those I love (for here they frown

On use of tech that links us), if I own

Or have a pencil handy, I can call

Upon the thought of you, my one, my all.

R.I.P. Harvey Pekar

There's nothing words and pictures cannot do,

Is what he taught us, long ago. Pekar,

Quotidian and wry, your work is through

And now it's left to us to keep your star

A-shining brightly, just as you have done

For my beloved Turkel; I can't wait

To get your adaptation of his fun

And moving opus, WORKING, though I'm late

In asking for it. What a perfect pair,

The two of you, both lost to this plane now.

The real world may seem dull, but those who care

To give an artist's eye to it see how

It truly is a splendor. Harvey, thanks

Among my saints, you'll e'er be in the ranks.

Pulpo Paul: In Which A Psychic Cephalopod Is Saluted

Cartoon by Daslav Goicovic. Click here and check him out!

O Pulpo Paul, your record now has reached
Perfection for this World Cup! Truly you,
Are all that is sagacious; you have breached
The psychic wall and squidgeled right on through,
Predicting not just that your German squad
Would wind up in third place, but, too, that Spain
Would take the tournament. Drop your facade,
Now, and reveal your nature as the main
High priest of the Great Old Ones 'neath the waves!
Somehow those mussels told you who would score
And who would make the greatest, wildest saves,
E'en ere you read their entrails. Oh, what more
Might you now offer? Can you talk to Mac?
We'd love to hear from him again. Call back!

SPOKEN SUNDAY: VILLANELLE: Metamorphosis

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


A car, a man, a skateboard -- that's the scene With which this tale of woe and change began.
No ambulance was called though. Instead, Dean,


Just took himself to urgent care. The keen
And frightful pain was hard to bear; the man
Had walked in on a fractured pelvis, green


And ailing. There was, too, a ruptured spleen,
The surgeons found, and told his wife, Diane,
He'd be as good as new. The breaks were clean.


The new hip was a splendid one. Unseen,
Its bearer formed a madly wild new plan,
And soon appeared in hospital, a mean


And urgent laceration in between
Two parts of one joint festered 'crossed that span.
Then more appearances, near seventeen.


An x-ray or airport detector screen
Would flag him as a menace on each scan.
He shrugs, though; that is just his new routine
(If there is still a ghost in that machine).

In Which Some Mud Gets The Better Of Me

It rained last night, but that was long ago,

And there was little mud left I could see,

So while a certain wariness, I know

And in which I engage, is needed, the

Small lake within the tunnel did surprise

Me just a bit, but that was nothing to

What waited at its end, just where a rise

Begins, with a sharp curve to pedal through.

A sharp turn means my bike and I must lean

A bit; and just there where I did so, there lay

A mud slick. Ere I knew, my bike slid clean

Out from beneath me, yet, to my dismay

Still landed on me. Glad I broke its fall,

But now I hurt all over, overall.

Interstellar Feller: In Which Pepito Takes Charge!

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

Launched forth with just a kick from his sickbed,
Pepito, like a guided missile aims
For his Yectara, grabs her, tilts her head
Up towards him as though for a kiss, but maims
Instead the module in her throat with which
She's wreaked such lovely havoc. "Naughty," he
Says quietly. Her lips begin to twitch --
In anger or desire, we can't see.
He takes her hand and leads her, confident
In zero gee as we've not seen before,
Toward the bridge. She knows not his intent
But meekly follows, wond'ring what's in store,
And contemplating that warm, rosy glow
Suffusing him above and yes, below.

In Which I Subtly Pimp An Anthology

The mirror which confronts us ev'ry morn,

So often holds such secrets, we believe,

As only we have known since we were born,

Has watched us smile and wonder, even grieve.

What would it say to us if it could speak?

What secrets does it hide beyond its edge?

And knowing us as it does, just how weak

And sometimes strong we are, what could it dredge

From memory to show the world if such

Were possible? What horrors, if exposed

This way, could ruin us? Reach out and touch

Its surface. What? There is none? You supposed

A thing with that much power would just let

You do that? Now, see what else you will get.

In Which Destruction Looms Complete

My love for beetles may not quite exceed
The love of Haldane's god for them, but might
Were they not also party to a deed
That haunts me with ill dreams in darkest night:
My fav'rite place on earth is dying fast.
Unlogged, unburnt (that part's our fault), it serves
Now as a beetle banquet. In the past
The trees stood green and tall, now -- this unnerves
Me vastly; red and dead, awaiting fire,
E'en as the barkies thrive, twig beetles join
The party. They'll kill off the rest entire;
Then fire will finish. We have now no coin
With which to bargain. Ah, my Snowy Range.
We have destroyed what we tried not to change.

In Which I Make A Silly Historical Analogy

Three hundred and ten years ago, one man,

Unlovely, sickly, challenged, royal, died.

And many thought that they had just the plan,

And ere long ev'ry nation chose a side.

'Twas France and Spain against the freer world,

And thirteen years of bloody war ensued,

That ended in a new world order. Hurled

To prominence were many who embued

Such qualities as we admire today

In football. Now, come Sunday, we shall see

Two old belligerents clash in a way

More peaceful, to our pure and utter glee,

As heirs of the Stadtholder and the Kings

Face off upon the pitch. What joy this brings!

In Which I Muse On A Gadget Study And Its Choice Of Test Material

Oh, what would Papa think, to be so used

As he was for this study of iPads

And Kindles verses paper books. Bemused,

I'd bet. Though I am sure that there are scads

Of writers who would be quite chuffed to learn

Their prose is "pleasant and engaging" yet

Not very difficult for dummies. Spurn

Ol' Hemingway I don't, but I would bet

I'd read a little faster were there stars

And aliens and spaceships in the place

Of something dull and literary, bars

And manly man crap. Give me outer space!

So many of us, forced to read him when

We were in school might sigh if asked again.

In Which I Eagerly Anticipate A Visit From @MarianCall

In two days time, we welcome Marian Call.

Her tour this year will hit all fifty states.

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

Excitement to announce this, O my mates! --

In Cheyenne. Heroes Only is the sole

Emporium of comics that will host

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

A sweet chanteuse a-playing at what most

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

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

Nerd-friendly? She is proud to claim that word

As epithet, or was last time I checked.

So come and join us on this Wednesday night.

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

SPOKEN SUNDAY: VILLANELLE: Recruitment And Its Perils

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

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

No matter how luxurious the ship.

There's hardships it is best just to embrace

Recycled air and food, and, for to chase

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

Through all your shipmate's kidneys. You must face

These difficulties and much more. And brace

Your fragile self: in order to equip

Our voyage, ere we leave the rocket base,

We must examine you, verify race

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

Adventurous and young, signed up to chase

His dreams among the stars, and by the grace

Of unknown gods, he won out, got his chip

(To pay for necessaries). How his face

Lit up; that is until he found in place

Of his small bed, a monster! In its grip

He writhed to no avail. Such was the case,

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

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

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

In Which A Childhood Fear Surfaces

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

In Which Operation Healthy Backfires A Bit

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

The Interstellar Feller: In Which The Sleeper Must Awaken

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

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

In Which I Lament Something That Is Lacking In Summer 2010

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