In Which We Happily Reprogram One Another

The list just grows; we're all compelled to share

What we love with our chosen family

Of course we want the source code, well aware

That we can do it, too. This week must be

The one most overwhelming info-dump:

Read this, watch that, you'll love it, add it to

Your list. When we're apart, you'll feel a lump

Rise in your throat, but really, working through

This subculture we've just created here

Will ease it. What has formed me now shall cross

The barriers between us, never fear!

We're always just a thought away. Though loss

Is how we came together we all gain.

It's wonderful to share a heart and brain.

Tweet

Such ingenuity is on display
At ev'ry turn. I can't stop gawking, and,
I'm awestricken most ev'ry moment, stand
Amidst the flow of traffic, heedless of
The chance of crashes, stepped-on toes. The crush
Of poorly-managed traffic is a price
To see these wonders I pay gladly, plus
It's something that can never happen twice,
My first convention in such company
As I have longed for. I just turn my head
And see my joy reflected. So, you see
I've nearly got a case of whiplash, led
From awesome to more awesome by a guide
Who smiles and takes my wonder in his stride.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Fan Expo: In Which We Are Not Amused

Oh noes! This Expo has attracted fans

In numbers greater than the hall can hold!

A mob outside the doors -- paid up -- now chants

"Let us in!" while inside -- it's getting old --

Another mob is gathered in the hopes

Of escalator rides up to the floor

With wonders that they came to see (poor dopes!)

And maybe buy, must wait around still more.

The hall is full, quoth fire marshalls, thus

No one may now ascend until some make

The downward journey. Till then, pooh to us

Who paid our money. How much must we take

Ere we revolt? At least the panels should,

And really now had better, be quite good.

Tweet

In Which The Line For Fan Expo Is Long And Entertaining

FanExpo is a show e'en ere it starts.

The line to enter ends up Blue Jays Way,

And as I walk, I see what's in the hearts

Of many a fanboy and girl. Today

I passed a Picachu, a Brundlefly,

A ghostbuster, all standing in the sun

And sweating in their costumes. But, oh my,

The moment I loved best, that was most fun:

Paul has a press pass and he's got a stamp

But just convinced himself that it was gone --

We're sweaty -- and while yes, his hand was damp,

Like blue stigmata, it is higher on

His wrist. And even Batman panicked, fell,

But we all saved him, which is just as well.

Tweet

The Interstellar Feller: In Which A Reign Is Short

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...

How many cities burned? How many died

From this destructive tantrum Pepi's thrown?

How did he turn from love to genocide?

The reason for this change is yet unknown,

For ere the crew's reaction can be seen,

And ere Yectara's anger can be felt,

Pepito's eyes roll backwards; with a keen

Of anguish does he clutch his head. No welt

Or sign of any blow appears except

The force with which he draws back now. He floats

Unconscious once again. Formerly kept

Onboard, a sort of pet, he now may prove

A liability. It's time to move!

Tweet

In Which Are Considered @Laroquod's Many Alter-Egos And The Utility Thereof

As I came out from customs, wondering

How I would recognize my Laroquod

(Chameleonic, he) was I to cling

Dependent on the pics on my iPod

(Where I had made a spotter's guide)? Oh, no.

A list of Paul-plegangers served me well:

There's Alan Moore, Walt Whitman, Karl Marx, lo

(Some say the Unabomber -- I can't spell

His name, so I won't try, and anyhow

They're wrong on that score)! I knew him on sight!

This morning, too, a street dude called him -- now,

Don't laugh too hard, Kate, though it's hard to fight

That urge -- Haille Selassie! Paul, be proud!

Your avatars are awesome. Say it loud.

Tweet

Geeks In Flight

Sonneteer's note: this sonnet was composed on the afternoon of Wednesday, August 25 in the Cleveland airport, but a lack of wi-fi there prevented its being posted until now. Well, that and a Guinness-laden tweet-up and other adventures in Toronto.

An afternoon in Cleveland, fierce and bright

Outside these airport windows no one knows

Just who I am or why I'm here. I fight

The urge to howl "hello," see how it goes,

If anyone will answer, if I'll trip

Obsucre alarms and make a watch list, or

If someone else with time to kill who's hip

To what I dig will speak up. Hey, my score

In this regard is high; three on the plane

That brought me here from Denver talked sci-fi

With me at length, Ben Bova in the main,

But Stephenson and Gaiman, too! I sigh

Though. In Atlanta, coming home in May

I nearly missed a flight in just that way!

Tweet

Second Guesses

My keys, I have them right? Oh, but of course

How else would my car's engine roar along?

My phone, do I have that? I had to force

Myself to leave it be when tweeted. Wrong,

So wrong, this second-guessing, but it can't

Be helped. An active brain will always chew

On what it has available; if scant

Is fed to it, its own substance will do.

Garage door -- surely closed -- but better check.

That pocket bulge is just your wallet, though

Best make sure it's not out there on the deck

Or on the kitchen table still. You know,

Self-trust seems most elusive when one must

Prepare for something special. All is dust.

Tweet

Strange Cargoes

I crossed the mountains twice today, each way

With something diff'rent in my car. I took

My dog to Saratoga, where she'll stay

A week while I am gallivanting. Look:

My car was dogless coming home, but in

Her place, an Apple keyboard and some fish!

The one, from mom, who had the funny whim

To see if it will work, as we might wish

On something I've been building; by its side

Some frozen cutthroat trout from dad - his fun

Is catching these but we've sought far and wide

For recipes including them; not one

Meets his approval. On the other hand

I find them, for the eating, simply grand!

Tweet

In Which... In Which... In Which...

My last day ere vacation's finally here,
And really, it could not have come too soon.
Already I can taste the good stout beer
I'll quaff with Laroquod that afternoon
Three days hence. Now, my head a-spin with plans
And trying to catch up the time I lost
In dealing with some other crap -- these spans
Of time I've wished away I'd now accost
And put to sterner purpose, if I could.
I'm still not packed and would keep having dreams
In which I've left my passport home. Not good!
But such is ever my state when it seems
I'm soon to be a-traveling. My head
Has done the work my body now must dread.
Tweet

In Which The Aftermath Is Always Worse

The fun won't stop, not yet, and not because

The problem did, is past and gone and done.

It's still curled up and waiting for a pause

Within my busy-ness to pounce. It's one

Of many little quirks biology

Has left in us; still animals, we learn

More deeply through our crap recovery

Than through the instant when we took the burn.

It's psychic, though, what happened, so it's kept

Within my body far too long. I breathe

And tap as I'm supposed to, but I've wept

A lot. There's still a lot to do. I seethe

Resenting just a bit how I've been caught

In atavistic traps that chance hath wrought.

Tweet

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Take A Duck To The Face At 250 Knots

"It could have been much worse," I chant again.
I could have lost another friend today
But he was luckier than some have been,
Was rescued from his fate. But still I sway
My heart beats its arrhythmia which took
Our Mac from us (it has been diagnosed;
I just can't have caffiene). I'm told I look
As though eight hours of sun burned me like toast.
It's true: a bullet dodged is scarier
Than one that hits. Adrenaline begone!
I did all that I could and did not err,
But still I shake a bit. I'm holding on,
But cannot help but damn these unjust fates
That brought me to this pass this, of all dates.

Tweet

In Which Blagojevich Makes His Next Move

Fitzgerald had it wrong, for second acts
Are quite endemic these days, witness how
Our fav'rite Prostnic Vogon -- these are facts --
Acquitted (mostly), has announced that now
He's going to be at Wizard World to sign
Some autographs and read some poetry
To any whom his minions capture. Fine
And dandy, but a bit odd, seems to me!
O Blago, you're the cruelest captain yet!
I'm sure that Paula Nancy's wet her pants,
And clutches tightly to her crown (I'll bet
The Azgoths know they haven't got a chance).
Oh, freddled gruntbuggy, I hope you'll show
Some mercy to those who still choose to go.
Tweet

Interstellar Feller: In Which Pieces Need Picked Up

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...

The chunks of Alderaan that near destroyed
A certain famous smuggling ship are not
Unlike what buffets Grokulator. Freud
Might ponder if that isn't where he got
This notion. He's an earth boy, after all,
Our Pepi. When he had the time to learn
Just what this little ship could do must gall
His lady love; indeed, we see her burn
With wounded curiosity. She takes
Her arm from out the weapons socket, eyes
The damage, then develops mighty shakes
Of rage or fear, we can't tell. The demise
Of an entire world is no small thing.
But Pepi shrugs. It's good to be the king.
Tweet

In Which I Plead We Shut Up About The Ground Zero Mosque Already

You'll find no spot where nothing has occurred
That we could e'er call tragic. Why do some
Get privledged over others? It's absurd.
But that is not the only thing that's dumb
About the current controversy 'round
Ground Zero and a Muslim center. There
Around it sits a lot that's truly bound
To cause offense already, and to spare:
Like crappy souvenir shops where one buys
Mementos made in China -- commerce, though
Is what is truly sacred, I surmise.
We've come so far, but have so far to go:
There's joblessness and homelessness and war
That need all our attention so much more.
Tweet

A Crater, Please, For Mac

A Martian crater named for him would be

Most suitable, to help remember Mac

And teach new generations how much he

Once meant to us who'd gladly have him back.

He looked toward Mars with a special eye,

Both skeptical and curious; the Face

And Fort intrigued him but he ne'er let fly

With theories. Only questions had a place

In what he wrote and thought and shared. His point

Was not to prove that someone once lived there

But that we'll never know until a joint

Or single effort makes the trip - a fair

And reasoned one. There's myst'ries to explore

And Mac's no longer with us keeping score.

Tweet

In Which Primary Election Day Holds Some Surprises

I bought a house a year ago or so,
And thus changed my address, but little did
I realize that this day I would go
Both far and wide to exercise, as bid,
My franchise. Last time 'round 'twas just a block
From where I lived to where I cast my vote.
My new pad's just a quarter-mile to walk
From those old digs, but now (I failed to note
Before today), I'm in a district new
To me, and now the locale of my poll
Is many miles away. The air's still blue
From my much-thwarted process there -- how droll:
Construction everywhere meant that it took
Almost the whole alloted hour. Fists shook!.
Tweet

In Which I Am Editing

This sonnet-writing's tightened up my prose,
Which was a goal I had back at the start.
I cherish this but now I've got my nose
Deep in a slash-and-burn, I find my heart
Just wants to break; I have to cut much more
Of what I thought already nice and lean.
I've got more notion, though, of what it's for,
These words and thoughts, but still I think it's mean
To hack and cut as I must do. I tell
Myself the final product then will shine
The brighter, but right now a kind of hell
Or something near it surely, is all mine.
And deadlines, self-imposed or even not
Just make this seat of mine a little hot!
Tweet

Sunday Comics

No sleep, but Sunday Comics led me t'ward

My workday, willingly. I spent last night

Too late at work, alas; today my hoard

Of saved-up floppies kept my spirits bright.

Daytripper, luminous as e'er, but dull

Compared to other issues; then I took

A look at Morning Glories, which I'll cull

From my subscription list; a tawdry book

And too overt. But Fringe, I'd nearly dumped

This one, but it surprised me well. And then

A great mass of a book I'd mostly lumped

As someday reading: Rotten, which has been

My fav'rite of the day. I like my gore

With story and invention; that and more!

Tweet

SESTINA SATURDAY: Looking Foreward

I could be on the cusp of major change
Or just a false alarm again. One step
Could easily decide it all. I'm brave,
But there is much to lose if I let fly
My words and deeds and wishes. Much has gone
Untried already, though. I will know soon

If what I contemplate is true. How soon
Is relative. One thing that e'er does change
Is how long moments feel before they're gone.
Some times a lifetime floods our ev'ry step;
At others days and weeks just seem to fly
Fast past us. Just the powerful and brave

Can seize them each and hold them in a brave,
Unflinching grasp, examine them ere soon
Their spines emerge. We drop them, then. A fly
Might lap the blood they draw or, for a change
We might let go in time. Each one's a step
Towards an e'er receding end that's gone

Before we realize it. I have gone
A-chasing wisps before, put on a brave,
Disguising face to mask me when I step
Into the mire I thought was golden. Soon
I'll stride again, all in the hopes I'll change
Myself and others' fates. Too late to fly

Now from this challenge. Gleefully we fly
Into the face of disapproval, gone
To madness, some say, for to seek out change
Is folly. Fortune does not love the brave
As much as the wise planner. I'd as soon
Be foolish, though. One life is mine. I step

Into an unknown world each day; each step
Could lead to death or danger. Why not fly
To where I've never been; my end is soon
In grander terms, and when I'm dead and gone
The dangers that I never dared to brave
Will still be there. Decay will be my change.

Too soon all chances lost. I'll take the step
And risk. I'm bored, crave change, am bound to fly
To somewhere new. While gone, I will be brave.
Tweet

Unburdening

Mundane and quiet, Saturday has passed.
Some friends are re-arranging, others purge,
Well knowing that there's little that will last
And will survive that never-ending urge
To get new stuff, replace what has grown stale,
And keep up. Summer's fading, and the change
Will do us good. Just one more quick yard sale
And then we're fine, right? Doesn't it seem strange
This churning? But it's what we've always done.
We shed our burdens gladly, breathe in free
And fresh new air, but then, because it's fun
And sexy, start accumulating. Whee!
But one day all of this will have to stop;
Another must dispose of what we drop.
Tweet

In Which I Am A Shamless Starla (@riznphnx) Fangirl

My Dreamer's Thread runs long and all throughout
This world of mine, and currently it weaves
Into a shameless tapestry; I'll shout
For Starla's awesome basket (who believes
These contests can be real, now, anyways?).
The story was great fun for listening,
And playing a small voice part in -- a craze
'Mongst all the cool podcasters, quite the thing.
If fairy tales were e'er your bag, you owe
Yourself a listen, though now you can get
A printed one, or ebook, dont you know?
And hold on to your socks, for you can bet
King Cyrus and his crew will charm them right
Off your two feet (but 'twill be a delight).
Tweet

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Test Out The Tweet Button

I'm testing out the new Tweet button, just
Because I wonder how it shall appear
And if it will be any help. One must
Experiment to answer questions. Fear
Not: if it annoys, it's coming down.
I simply had a moment, now, to spare,
And cannot help but want more readers. Frown
Not on me for this, please. I shouldn't care
About such things, I 'spose, but there: I do.
And honestly, who doesn't? Is it art
If no one ever sees it? Click on through
And tweet it if you've liked it, but my heart
Won't break if you just snort and roll your eyes
And move along. Just tryin' it on for size.
Tweet

Interstellar Feller: In Which Very Bad Things Happen

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...

The Grokulator's armed! Nobody knew;
It's queen would really rather flee than fight.
But she's not its first owner; it's been through
A series of possessors. Now its bright
And puissant weapons target themselves on
The unknown planet. Pepi barks out "FIRE!"
And twists Yectara's arm some more. The dawn
The denizens just saw's their last; the ire
Of this, their erstwhile captive now destroys
Not just a city but the planet! BOOM!
Such weapons as Yectara's ship employs
Indeed can spell out anybody's doom.
And she's left wond'ring just what she has brought
Aboard her ship. He's not the man she thought...

In Which I Have A Proust Moment Of Sorts

The sound of bagpipes and the sight of plaid,
So vivid, and the taste of weak iced tea,
But why, on a plain Thursday? I have had
A tough time, just explaining what must be
A neuro-hiccough of some kind. Just now,
The revelation struck! A treasured friend
With whom I work has some way and somehow
Begun to smell just like another. When
I was a younger gal, Glen Glidden's home
Was quite a common destination for
My family. Once Glen and Dad did roam
The highways of a night and their rapport
Transcended how they made their livings. Sigh,
So nice to be reminded of that guy.

In Which My Day Is Loud And Fragrant

Infested now, my neighborhood, with such

Variety of workmen as I find

Impossible to name them all, has much

In common with disaster zones. I wind

Around its streets and cul-de-sacs aboard

Deep Blue and see some roofers, yes, and by

My "circle's" deepest curve, not just a hoard

Of all-but-shirtless men, but also -- fie! --

A reeking porta-potty twixt a pile

Of sand and some huge trucks. The din's profound.

It's gypsy contract season. With a smile

And promise of low pricing all around,

They've sucked in all my neighbors, it would seem.

How long will their work last, though, do you deem?

In Which I Get My Lamp!

You're in a cave, it's dark, what will you do?
GET LAMP, that's what! This film both made me smile
And stirred old wistfulness; the timeline through
Which we are taken largely took place while
Computers were unheard of where I dwelt
(Excepting those typesetting beasts employed
By newspapers). You'd best believe I felt
Deprived as I read how others enjoyed
Computer gaming in those early days,
How stories weren't just read but lived by those
Who solved their puzzles in ingenious ways,
How smart people were having fun! "But," crows
My fav'rite pusher "It is not too late!
(I paraphrase)" And thus he's sealed my fate.

In Which It Is ALIVE!

I haven't built since Nineteen Ninety-Four,

But as completion looms, I wonder why.

I really cannot think of much that's more

Rewarding than to build from base parts my

Computer! I feel silly, though; it's flash

With all those LEDs. The gaudy type

I really am not often. Do they clash,

The red and blue? The front doth bring a gripe:

I still want clear drive panel covers, so

If anyone can help me find some, please,

I'll be more grateful than you'll ever know!

The silver, well, will do at least, and ease

Is what I need right now for the next bit:

To set it up for Snow Leopard! Oh, shit!

Atomic Robo: In Which I Make A Plea For A Wish To Come True

Last week, while I enjoyed a casual chat
With Brian Clevinger (such is the pow'r
Of Twitter), he did casually mention that
Atomic Robo soon would have its hour
In gaming! Old school pen-and-paper play!
And Savage Worlds was in the running as
The system! This hath prompted me to say
"Hell yes! You must!" for all that each one has
Could but enhance the other. Both contain
Potential for high pulp, ever fulfilled.
The game frankly encourages the main
Conceit the comic offers: you can build
A weapon, but instead, why not a man
Of metal, full of humor and a plan?

In Which Canada Shall Do Its MATMOS

Mars' methane has long puzzled those who care
To ponder the Red Planet (and of these
I do know many). How did it get there
And in such unexpected quantities?
Comes now, from Canada, upon the scene
A new spectrometer, which shall be sent
Mars-bound soon; the year Two-Thousand-Sixteen
Shall see the MATMOS sniffer there, bright, keen
And ready to precisely gauge where, when
And maybe how the gass appears. Perhaps
'Twill furnish proof of life at last. Till then,
We can but wonder, as that best of chaps,
Mac Tonnies, pointed out, we'll never know
Until at last we try and boldly go!

In Which A Technology's Use Is Past Its Prime

Once quite a boon, they now cause teeth to clench
E'en though they now can play a fav'rite song
When interrupting us. Oh, how they wrench
Attention from important tasks is wrong,
And yes, it could be less so, what we do
When suddenly they chime or screech or ring.
The diff'rence 'twixt these states, one has no clue
When he's the caller. "Drop it, stop that thing
Right now" is what's conveyed when a phone call
Cuts in. And it's resented. Minutes flee
From both of us. We needn't be in thrall
In this way, not these days, oh, don't you see?
A chat or visit's one thing when we're far
Apart, but otherwise? Texting's the star.

Interstellar Feller: In Which Aggression Is Imminent Again!

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...

Blood wells up from the gash created when
Pepito sought to meld him with the ship.
In zero gee, these crimson globules, ten
Or twelve of them float free; no one will slip
In Pepi's gore. He grits his teeth, goes deep
Into his flesh; wires grate against his bones,
But nothing happens; nary sounds a beep
Nor glows a light. A wordless curse he groans,
Then reaches for Yectara, jams her arm
Into a nearby socket, twists it, and
The panel lights up. Pepi means them harm,
Those aliens below, or else her hand
Would not be jammed against a trigger! She
Cries out "What are you doing? Let them be!"

Migraine Day

Today it's solely by an act of will

These lines appear. Had I not so resolved

To write a sonnet daily, e'n it kill

Me, there'd be nothing here. So much involved

In fighting just to sit and look, I peer

Through veinous eyes at this far too-bright screen.

And that is just because I had a queer

And mightly upsetting, ugly dream

In which today became the one I failed.

The tinnitus still sounds, and I must pause

Between waves of harsh light, from which I've quailed,

And those of nausea, all of this caused,

No doubt, by my own faults. I estimate

Beyond what I can handle, seems, of late.

Mark Van Name's CHILDREN NO MORE: In Which A Book Makes Me Misty-Eyed Before I Even Read It

Imagine a trained killer. Now tell him

He cannot have a brownie till his plate

Is clean, and that his ev'ry whim

Will not be your command. A child of eight

Who knows more ways to maim than you know quotes

From Star Trek -- what shall life be like for one

Like that without some major help? So notes

A sci-fi author who has really done

What many still just dream of: he has made

A promise: all hardcover sales of this

New novel are to benefit and aid

The Falling Whistles charity. Don't miss

The chance to get a great read and to do

A good deed in the process, and thank you!

In Which I Commit A Stupid Error

To make sense now is daunting, even though

I did just sleep for sev'ral hours. It's

My fault and no one else's, as you know.

The day gig's short on staff -- this is the pits,

But it's an opportunity to lay

Aside more funding for my coming jaunts

Whereat I'll wander, meet new folks and play

(I hope) some games. Today, though, this just haunts

My body and my soul. My error lies within

Accepting overtime piecemeal without

Considering the pieces' fit within

A larger context of a day. A bout

Of sleeplessness of nearly twenty-four

Resulted. Brain's a puddle on the floor.

R.I.P. Kate's Kindle

Not unlike other tech doodads of yore,
My Kindle's fate is now quite D.O.A.
The gadget endured just a little more
Than covered by its warranty. I'll say:
I've used it hard and long and well, but think
That if or when it gets replaced I'll go
With something less restrictive, more in sync
With what I want from books and, as you know,
With what I most believe: that culture's meant
For sharing. Paperbacks and DVDs
Can easily be lent, donated, sent
To others. While I do like sparing trees,
Renewing them's not hard. Meanwhile I've got
My iPod with the Kindle app, eh wot?

In Which @MightyMur Impresses Us All

Quite possibly, we'd say the very best
Of features that the internet hath brought
Is knowledge that somewhere, someone's been blessed
With an extraordinary time. I've sought
(But not too hard) to see just who, today,
Could claim that title, and I find it's Mur,
That Mighty Girl. When she popped in to say
The word count she had reached exceeded her
Top record for one day, and wasn't done
(Nine thousand and six hundred words!), my jaw
Dropped just a bit, then later found her run
A truly Lowellan twelve thousand. Awe?
Try reverence, and really not a little!
And Mur, I'll take the one that's in the middle.