In Which Is Considered Glise 581g

We've found one in the zone called Goldilocks,
A planet that can hold on to its air
And might have liquid water. While this rocks --
No doubt about that -- we must have a care:
This doesn't mean there's life, or that we'll talk
To beings living there soon (and indeed
Those rumors 'bout the Datuk we must knock
As groundless). I know some, with undue speed
Have jumped to such conclusions in the press.
While Glise 581g looks just right
'Twill be some time yet ere we make a guess
As to life's presence 'round that red dwarf. Might
We have some neighbors? Maybe. But I find
Another home for us is on my mind.

In Which I Am Sick Of Listening To Myself

Some vocal chords, a throat, a head, each set

A little diff'rent, so our voices come

To sound just as they do. And when we get

To spend a day a-list'ning, they sound dumb

To us who bear them. Podcast marathons

Are exercises in humility.

Misspeakings, grunts, just sounding like morons,

Or losing track of character, ah me.

That anyone would volunteer to hear

What now results, is stunning. How I hate

The way I sound! And no, it's not my gear

(A Blue Snowflake is good, and, just of late,

I've made myself a pop filter); oh no!

Humiliated pride's what runs the show.

In Which I Am Sick Of Listening To Myself

Some vocal chords, a throat, a head, each set

A little diff'rent, so our voices come

To sound just as they do. And when we get

To spend a day a-list'ning, they sound dumb

To us who bear them. Podcast marathons

Are exercises in humility.

Misspeakings, grunts, just sounding like morons,

Or losing track of character, ah me.

That anyone would volunteer to hear

What now results, is stunning. How I hate

The way I sound! And no, it's not my gear

(A Blue Snowflake is good, and, just of late,

I've made myself a pop filter); oh no!

Humiliated pride's what runs the show.

In Which A Beautiful Decay Is Much Admir'd

The toppling of so great a thing must make

A great and thundrous noise, to summarize

What once was said of Caesar. Now I take

This thought for one of, perhaps, lesser size,

But one whose fall we've watched, aghast, for years.

Don Draper, he whose silhouette doth plunge

Past all his noblest works; in him our fears

Of meaningless and empty toil do lunge

To grab hold of us. We are stalked, the prey

Of time and glories past, false hope; just vain

And flimsy props to hide behind. Decay

Is what we celebrate in Don; his pain

Is ours. Nor is it caution; there is naught

That we can do; in that same web we're caught.

Datuk Barata...

Because what's sought at first's a bureaucrat
Whene'er first contact's made, we've had a gap
In need of closing. Worry not! For that
August and needful body (shut your yap;
They have their uses) in New York we call
United Nations hath now chosen one
Datuk Professor Mazlan Othman (all
A Datuk is, is one her king has done
The honor of so naming; chivalry
Is still there in Malaysia) for to serve
As all our spokesdame. I am sure that she
Will do just fine, as long as she's the nerve
To wait while xenolinguists try to fish
Some sense out of some unknown gibberish.

Morning Sonnet: A Moonlit Commute

The sun's not even reddening the east;
It's dark, but there is moonlight, so I can
See what's ahead somewhat, be it small beast
Or bungie cord in my path, or a man
In shadows and dark clothes, walking his pet
(His ipod means he still can't hear my bell,
So he's the greatest hazard) -- though I get
The Greenway to myself, mostly. The smell
Of rotting leaves, the tick of them in wind
That still is warm and gentle, my escort.
Soon I'll be struggling to stay disciplined
Enough to fight it, and the snow, contort
My face into a grimace, pedaling,
But now I just enjoy. It's long 'til spring.

In Which Malice Is Afoot - Or Agoat

A "WTF" link first appeared,
With it a shortened link, and Twitter then
Became an IQ test, though somewhat queered
By curiosity, as shown off when
It spawned a tweet in your stream that announced
Your fondness for some outre naughtiness
(This is a fam'ly sonnet; won't be trounced
By those, censorious, who call for less
And more attenuated smut; I'll not
Quote what these said here). Few of you did fall
For its allure, but many mocked it. Got
To say, though, no Stuxnet jokes? Sigh. I'll call
You on one thing, though, O my silly birds:
If thus you tweeted, better change passwords.

Alas!

Alas! The streak is broken. I forgot
To write and post a sonnet yesterday.
Somehow I got home and, I guess, I thought
I'd written one at work. I cannot say
How much this disappoints me, when, as well
My readers know, I've gone to lengths beyond
What any normal poet would to tell
A story, share a thought or news, a fond
And friendly greeting. Something always comes
To lend me inspiration. Once I could
Rely on friends to nag me when I'm late
A-posting, but that never was a good,
Effective way to keep me to my vow.
I'm sad and kind of desolate right now.

In Which An Alaska Commuter Flight Passenger Is Crazy As A June Bug

God told her she should do it, duly quoth
The woman who approached and did lay bare
Her buttocks (and indeed, she bared them both
To the propeller, spinning, with no care
Except that she would not die, per her Lord).
Was this a suicide? If so it failed
(Except in scaring those poor folk aboard
The plane!). O David Malki, I must know
What prompted you to seek this story out?
What Wonders in your comic will you show
Inspired by this weird tale? We all do shout
Together with you, 'tis a weird report.
Propeller plunging's now the latest sport?
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Interstellar Feller: In Which An Ending Comes... And A Beginning?

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...

Strikes first her erstwhile champ'ion; TriBruno
Brings forth a vibro-knife and plunges deep
(Or tries; Yectara's metal form doth slow
The fiercest blade; his glances off; dirt cheap,
Though, it is not). The screech induces pain
In all who hear it. Next Droze tries to slash
Yectara's throat. He fails to nick a vein,
But coolant gushes. Soon there is a flash
Of heat and light; a meltdown now occurs!
Quodlaro, Doctor Vuhl and others must
Restrain Pepito, whose cries now match hers
As she heats up and dies. No more does lust
Or longing stir at this, their lady's voice.
And now they all must live with this, their choice.
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In Which I Must Hunt Up My Bikeskimo Gear

Still on vacation, so I think, am I -
Though far from there, the city I love most-
But in the early morning, I must hie
Me through the dark and chilliness we boast
As Autumn in Cheyenne (it's winter in
All but the name). Deep Blue must carry me
Through shadows to my day gig through the thin
And frosty pre-dawn air. 'Tis time to see
Where all my turtlenecks have got to, find
My Doctor-Who length scarf, and goggles, too,
That I might don the former and might wind
The latter 'round my neck and torso. You
Might find these preparations odd, but rest
Assured that it's all really for the best.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

In Which They Are Multiplying -- MULTIPLYING!

A ticket stub's a simple thing to toss,

To throw away, to pitch, to dispose of,

And yet today I find I'm at a loss

Regarding how these things have -- for all love --

Continued to appear whene'er I wash

The clothes I wore to TIFF screenings last week!

In white-and-tangerine, these bits do quash

My hopes of cleaned-up pockets. With a meek

And tiny mewl I fish them out and sigh.

We emptied ev'ry day, but there they are.

I quipped that they were breeding at the time,

But didn't think they really were. I'm far

From where I got them now, yet still they cling

Like memories of some long-lost dream-thing.

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R.I.P. Wildstorm Comics

There's just a handful on my pull list, yet

I still read news today that makes me sad,

That fills me with more than just some regret.

Wildstorm's no more, and this is really bad

For comics lovers, even if such scrapes

Cross not your radar. I, for one, don't see

Myself enjoying Astro City's capes

A-flying with DC's. It had to be,

They'll doubtless say, but independence lost

Is always worth the mourning. The Big Two

Already bore me vastly; at what cost

Do we preserve the indies ere we're through.

Is Vertigo the next to go? I can't

Bear more such thoughts right now. Instead, I rant.

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Lines Written Circling Pearson International Airport

It's not good-bye, not anymore, not now

That Twitter keeps us well and truly linked,

I tell myself, yet fail to keep my vow

That I would never cry. As such, I blinked

Back tears when parting from my Paul at last.

I shall return next spring, and meanwhile there

Is much to start and finish. Art thoughts blast

My brain; creative mainlining and care

In choosing how we spent this visit means

The well is truly full; work beckons; we

Collaborate and have our own tasks. Scenes

From gleeful planning sessions, setting free

Our wild imaginations boost my cheer,

But I'll not see my loves until next year.

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In Which My Harvest Incurs Merriment

A bifurcation 'twixt us has been found:

As we traversed the traffic islands, I

Did something that elicited a sound

From Paul I'd call a gasp of shock, caused by

My plucking from a tree some traffic fruit --

A mere crabapple, which I ate. I smiled --

I love them so, and it was fresh, to boot!

'Twas yesterday that happened. Now, beguiled

By this so-shocking tale, my Pete and Paul

Amuse themselves exchanging recipes

(Or concepts therefor); and that book we'd call

A Traffic Fruit Compendium. With ease

Comes traffic jam and traffic fruit tarts, and

We'd better stop; it's getting out of hand.

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In Which I Share An Ecomium For A Secret City

I love Toronto; it's already known,

But there's Toronto and TORONTO, dig?

What I love best's the Laroquodal zone,

The Secret City Paul inhabits. Big

And lushly vegetated traffic isles,

Underground commercial PATHs that are

All but deserted after hours. For miles

We traipse through spaces unknown to those car-

Fixated types, those nine-to-fivers, those

Who see no use in emptiness. We find

A post-apocalyptic vibe just flows

Through all and find it sweet. The cast of mind

That lets us so enjoy it is a gift

That lets our transit seem joyous and swift.

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Instellar Feller: In Which Someone Is In Trouble

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...

Our Captain, Droze, now clears his throats. "My Queen,"

He says after a moment. "Quodlaro

And I would like a word now. We're quite keen

To have some questions answered-- "No. Now go,"

She interrupts. "But, how is it that he" --

They point to Pepi -- "Suddenly knows how

To fly the Grokulator?" "Silence!" She

Forgets, though, that her ev'ry word is now

No longer their desire. As they've flown

Through space and time, all craven, now they feel,

These cacogens, ill-used. Now, to the bone

(Or exoskeleton, for some), the real

And white-hot anger rises. They surround

Yectara and Pepito, all unbound.

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Sonnet Dare: In Which Paul Is Locked In Combat Motal

The gauntlet falls, a ringing, mighty thud
(Though really it's just Laroquod when he
Pulls out an indispensable wee dud,
His iPhone, and doth quest for some 3G).
"Lieutenant Gorman, do something!" he cries
(He's dubbed it thus for reasons I'll make clear;
The reference is Alien). How his eyes
Do narrow as his brow knits, and the fear
Doth grip me as he starts his kluge. He must
Because some crucial apps choked in a sync.
His firmware needed upgraded. The bust
Is that the new OS doth truly stink
On older iPhones. Lo, he entertains
Whene'er he tries to use his extra brains.

SONNET REVIEW: In Which I Chortle Through An Improved Christmas Story

"Be good, or Santa's coming," say the Finns.
"He'll spank you all to pieces, you watch out,"
Their children tell each other, all on pins
And needles at the thought of Christmas. Shout
A "Ho ho ho" and watch them scatter. This
Is not a friendly, shopping, merry Claus,
But rather quite a bugbear. I'm remiss
If I keep playing erudite, though, 'cause
I get me lore from filmic awesome, mates.
Rare Exports is the movie, and it brings
The funny till one's face hurts. It conflates
The Great Old Ones with Old Saint Nick and flings
The rulebook out the window. So much wrong
Is righter than the sweetest Christmas song.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

In Which We Try Not To Lose Track

It's all a blur. Paul, can we count them still,
The films we've seen? Begin with Inside Job -
T'was mighty fine. Then Mandoo - what a thrill,
With joys delighting any cinesnob.
The Edge took us to Russia, racing trains
Across Siberia. Then Griff, Invisible
And slightly mad... Next morning we took pains
To watch a Light Thief working. Next I mull
A Lapland Odyssey with a fond laugh,
And Viva Riva, gas thieves hard at war,
Then Break-Up Club -- my god, I need a graph!
A Country Starter doc -- but wait, there's more!
Then Pinoy Sunday... Oh, and then Cold Fish...
We're up to Sunday, at least. Got your wish.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Sonnet Review: Michael Winterbottom's The Trip

A journey's best when shared with someone who
Leads not, but does not follow, either one,
Who falls in step beside his friend, who'll do
Whatever offers -- hiding from the sun
Or singing ABBA songs, or tasting stuff
One ordinarily avoids; a friend
Who takes the cork out when one starts to puff
With self-importance, one who'll gladly lend
His voice to foolish choruses. Such are
Steve Coogan and Rob Broyden on the road
In Winterbottom's latest, in the car
Or in Lake District restaurants. This code
Prevails here for my own Trip. At my side,
My smiling, good companion on this ride.

In Which A Nation Is Born

Cry havoc! Let the cone of silence lift.

We're starting our own nation, Paul and Pete

And I, and there has been a tiny shift

In foreign policy, and it is sweet.

Our military briefings go like this:

Your main objective's ice cream, but if you

Should happen, on the way, on terrorists

And feel impetuous, by all means shoot.

As long as you don't let it interfere

With ice cream acquistion! T'was inspired

By one cool documentary -- sweet tooths

Just apres film played some part, too; we're wired

Just right to so respond to simple truths

As shown in How To Start Your Own Country.

And yes, our border's open, so feel free.

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In Which We Travel The World From Within A Very Small Space

A rush line's odd enough - much time to chat

With much like-minded strangers -- and one does --

A-trading tips and thoughts on movies that

We've gleefully discovered. And this was

Just part of what has made this day surreal.

Today began in Kyrgystan, then went

To Lappland for an odyssey (I feel

That was my fav'rite). Then lunchtime we spent

Exploring modern Congo - quite a tour!

But we weren't done with travl'ling; Uruguay

Was our next stop, and then, just to be sure

We'd hit another continent, our way

Took us at last to Hong Kong. Viva TIFF

(And thanks for fodder for this sonnet riff).

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Sonnet Review: Inside Job

A run on torches and on pitchforks may
Be what Chuck Ferguson planned all along;
Check his portfolio! I have to say,
As rabble-rousing fare goes, this is strong.
His new film, INSIDE JOB -- the title claims
To answer its whodunnit question, and
It does so. Calling out and naming names
Is always fun, but is there proof? Whose hand
Was on the world's financial till? Wall Street
Could not have screwed us on its own. The folk
Who monitor and regulate them meet
Criteria as those in on the joke
That our economy is now. I found
The interview techniques, though, not quite sound.

Interstellar Feller: Off 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...

"--No, wait, that's all, in fact. Just bring him here,"

Her Lord concludes. Yectara, ashen white,

And still in pain, nods, quivering in fear

And sets a course. They head into the night,

The Grokulator's crew, and in their wake

The fragments of the myst'ry planet float

Into oblivion. Of this we make

Just what we will. Mass murderers of gloat

On their achievements; Pepi, though, cannot

Recall just what he's done, it seems; when asked

Just why he did it, he just shrugs. No spot

Appears upon his conscience. Blithe and blank

And happy, he is innocent and frank.

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In Which Paul And Kate Make Decision Sausage

This festival, it's offerings do spin
Our tender heads, and we're not planners, yet
While we agree on what to see, it's in
The details that the devil lives. We get
So few such opportunities and seek
To make the most of them, and thus
With Guinness and a schedule for the week,
We undertake a kind of calculus.
Not like the Waterhouses, though; we are
Both liberal arts types, really, so though
We could have made a spreadsheet, in this bar
"Intelligent enough" is how we go.
It helps our brains are similarly wired,
Nobody else would find our mode inspired.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

In Which A Tradition Is Born

The Fox and Fiddle, here on St. John Street --
I think that it's a street, or is it Ave? --
Just weeks ago was where we chose to meet
Doug Groves and quaff some Guinness. Now I have
A little energy and time before
Collapsing, travel-worn, into my bed
And I can think of nothing I'd like more
Than one quick, quiet pint. The walking dead
Would smile, restored, and leave off eating brains
Were such on offer to them! Now I sit
Exhausted, happy, as the tension drains
Right from me. Soon I'll shuffle off and quit
This mortal coil -- just for tonight -- and rest.
Tomorrow starts up all that I love best!

In Which I Prep For Rush Lines At TIFF

The iPod's loaded, podcasts, comic books
And nonfiction from on and off The List.
The craptop has much Doctor Who; it looks
As though I'm ready; anything I've missed?
Of course now that I'm armed and ready, there
Will be a plentitude of things to do
And I shall hardly have the time to spare
For these amusements, for I shall have Drew
Or Peter, Sarah, Doug, but mostly Paul --
Yes, Paul, with whom I can't shut up -- in line
Beside me, and we none of us can call
As boring company. It would be fine
To simply stand or sit with these, but best
To be prepared for anything, I'll guess!


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Labor Day Ain't Just For Play

A three-day weekend is a real nice way
To end the summer, but just as it starts
With quite a sober, thoughtful holiday,
The summer's end should mean more in our hearts
Than just an extra day to play around.
That holidays and weekends are days off
For most of us, that we are safe and sound
(Or mostly) on the job, that -- don't you scoff --
We must be fairly paid... all this and more
We owe to those who struck and fought and died
To seize back power, even up the score
E'en just a little. Here's to those who tried
And sometimes failed. There's far to go as yet,
But we can someday get there, yes, you bet!
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Stanmageddon: In Which One Meme Dies And Another Is Born

My friends from Balticon have done me proud!
Comes now the news that last night, as they rocked
And rolled within a hotel room, too loud,
It seems, for one old man, who, it seems, knocked
(Or had some hotel lackeys do so) at
The door to our P.G.'s suite for to ask
They keep it down or just desperse. The cat
Who took my drinking buddies so to task
Was no less than Stan Lee! Oh, how I wince
To think the mighty fallen so that one
Who's caused such noise in his day now has since
Become such a naysayer at clean fun.
Scotchpocalypse is dead, I see; long live
The Stanmageddon. It has much to give.
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BONUS SONNET: Con-Fabulation

O would that we could have been having drinks
With Sasha Pixlee when he saw, last night
A sight that few could handle well, methinks,
Without our faces going bloodless, white
With shock. O DragonCon, O fandom, you
Bring out the beast in many. Last week I
Saw one Gene Simmons Batman plunge into
A crowd as he fell down the stairs (to fly
Was quite beyond him); this week Grover stalked
A bar in ol' Hotlanta -- in his hand
A bright red dildo. Wonder if he talked
That incoherent, growly way, too, and
If Sasha talked right back while hauling off
Four litres of fine absinthe for to quaff.
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Pondering the Toronto International Film Festival

I'm spoiled for choice, yet find as I check o'er
The offerings at TIFF this year that, while
I'm gasping lots and saying "ooh!" the store
Of what I must see there is small. I smile.
Once Winterbottom's next* would be the first
Upon my list, but I know it will be
An offering that I can catch, at worst
Within a few short months on DVD,
If not in theaters in old Cheyenne.
That's true of most; film fests are diff'rent now.
We've many options in this age; I can
But choose based on what will be coolest big,
Or what I want to see with Paul, you dig?
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*Sonneteer's note: I still may have to make for that film while there. The combination of Winterbottom, Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon is damned nearly irresistible Kate-Bait.

Grasshopper Gloss: In Which An Analogy Is Drawn

O grasshoppers, you scoff to see me wave,

That gesture ceding you the right to cross

The concrete -- as though simply that could save

You from becoming just a smear, a gloss

Upon the Greenway's surface. No, you wait

Or fly away in haste. There's wisdom there.

Likewise, e'en though I know that many hate

My firm refusal of concern and care

Some motorists extend on city streets

That I traverse, that cut across my path.

I trust you not, as memory still bleats

Distress at one who waved, then hit me. Hath

We come to this, assuming evil of

Those who might truly mean us naught but love?

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Interstellar Feller: In Which No One Must Be Told

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...

Now comes a message for Yectara from
Her unknown master, he of mighty reach
Through space and time. He keeps her 'neath his thumb
By unknown means. "Yectara, there's a breach,"
The ship itself declares in rumbling tones
(No laser beams this time; there's just raw force
Behind these words). Yectara's metal bones
Grow red hot. Screaming, she just says "Of course!"
"He must not know what he has done; too soon,"
The mighty voice says then. "You will comply."
It's not a question; this is not a boon
That she will grant Pepito. "You shall fly
Straight back to our headquarters now and bring
Our quarry to us. Oh, and one more thing --"

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In Which I Go To A Very Dark Place Indeed

I know, a steady diet of the stuff

Must lead to ruin, but just now and then

A giant slab of cheese proves just enough

To satisfy an appetite -- though when

I sought for Garth Marenghi's show, as per

My Queue Deformer's nod, I had no thought

Of just what I was in for. Through the blur

Of giggle-tears, I find my blood might clot,

My heart seize up, my veins clog up with sludge.

O, quelle fromage! I can't bear such delight

In larger doses, and yet I can't budge

From next my laptop; I'll be here 'till night!

At least the show is short-lived, ere I'd be

In trouble, late for work tomorrow. Hee!

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Here There Be Gremlins

I left the headlights on last week when I
Parked down at DIA. Jump starts are free,
But don't reset the dashboard clock. Some guy,
From our electrical utility
Came by to day to switch the meter for
A fancy new one they won't have to scan,
Which knocked out power for a while. No more
Than two appliances blink now, but man!
My phone alone know just what time it is
(My body's still on Eastern time; I've hope
That it can stay that way for now; gee whiz
I get to go back soon!). From here the scope
Of glitchiness seems small, but wow, you'd think
I'd been time walking -- or just need a drink.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Thoughts As I Circle George Bush International Airport

As William Gibson said of "soul delay,"

I feel a tether to my heart unspool

And trail behind me. It seems strange to say

I'm homesick for Toronto, but a fool

For it and those who live there I've become,

And no return in soon enough. I find

I may regain my equilibrium

If I can simply keep these things in mind:

Mere days and three more plane trips stand between

Me and reunion, and it's so that those

From whom I've parted (though their lack is keen)

Are truly not. So as the distance grows

And Houston's sunset now fills up my sky,

It's only happy tears that fill my eye.

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