Thursday, January 20, 2011

Sonnet? Nay, This Is A Yawn-et

I worked a night shift earlier this week,
It's part of how I earn the right to roam
This spring. And it was fine, but now I speak
Of aftermath, for once I moseyed home
At 1 a.m., it was not straight to bed
I went, but to the couch to read and write.
Next morning did I sleep, much like the dead,
And barely even dozed all through last night.
And now at work, my Monday, how I yawn!
My thoughts are jumbled and often I forget
Just what I'm doing. Soon, though, I'll be gone,
A beeline for the boudoir made; I'll bet
That I'm asleep before the sun is. Wow.
I wish I could be there, even right now.

Saturday, January 15, 2011

In Which I Confess Something, Podners

Wyoming's been my home, yet I've eschewed
Its native genre, Westerns, overall.
Comes time now to adjust my attitude,
For as you know, I've a new project, y'all.
Weird western writing with a friend across'd
Th'Atlantic! So perhaps it's best to add
Some westerns to my reading list. I've lost
My count of what I've planned so far. Too bad!
Zane Grey's entire ouvre safely dwells
Within my Kindle now, and hey, I did
Take up the challenge of one hundred books
In this fine year, and must do as I'm bid.
So giddayap, and lose those silly looks.
I'm drawing and I'm reading western stuff,
But still avoiding rodeos. Enough!

Friday, January 14, 2011

Interstellar Feller: In Which Pepi Has A Plan

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...

"'Tis now the time," this new Pepito quoth
To seek out my old seat of power, drive
Usurpers from it -- I hear that they're both
Grown feeble; we shan't even have to strive
To take back what is mine -- soon I shall rule
Again all that I did, ere perfidy
And guile did make of your Dark Lord their fool."
His cacogens just blink and stare til he
Explains "We're on the warpath. Set a course.
I'll teach those cowards ne'er again to make
Such plots. They made me human! There's no force
I shall not use to smite them. We shall take
No mercy on them. Onward with all haste!
There's blood and vengeance there for us to taste!

Thursday, January 13, 2011

In Which I Scribble And Sketch

I'm working hard at my new challenge, which
Is something that I've never tried before:
A drawing ev'ry day. I've had the itch
To try since last year. Back then nothing more
Than the odd insect sketch came from my pen
(Or pencil, really, but these words still need
To fit the meter and the rhyme scheme when
I write a sonnet!). Now, as I proceed
I'm trying first to draw the people who
Do populate a novel which I write
These days with Adam Christopher -- not new,
That project, but it soon will see the light
Of day, if we continue at our pace.
So far this year feels like a caucus race!

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

It Lives! In Which The Lost Robot Head Of Philip K. Dick Speaks Again

The valley most uncanny stretches wide,
E'en when we don't throw in an icon, such
As Philip K. Dick. My guts twist inside
To watch this. He'd have liked it very much,
At least at first. The android's had a long
And storied history, losing its head
In transit years ago. But such a wrong
Cannot go uncorrected, he'd have said
(Unless he said to trash the whole damned thing,
Or put somebody else's on there. He'd
Approve of Linda Rondstadt. "Make her sing
Again!" he'd say, and thus approve the deed).
I think I'm glad the head has been rebuilt,
But find it still quite creepy, to the hilt.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

Gabrielle Giffords: In Which The News Cycle Takes Its Toll

Once we might not have known for days or weeks,
Once it might at least have been hours -- when
That was the case, we rarely heard such shreiks
Of ire at garbled facts. There might have been
Just one guy with a gun, or many; we
Don't know yet, but so many think we do.
How many wounded? Dead? When will there be
A true accounting of how, why and who
Must bear the blame? The narrative's compressed:
Schroedinger's Congresswoman's story shows
How truly things have changed; we're still distressed
From purest shock, yet many think they know
The truth already. Finger-pointing, blame --
Yet who among us knew, ere now, her name?

Friday, January 7, 2011

In Which I Ponder Why The Ladies Like The Grey

The Oliveri asked of us today
O'er on his mighty supervillain blog
(And Twitter) why the ladies like the grey
That surfaces in beards and hair. Agog
That this was e'en a mystery, I spilt
The beans, that when a guy has grey it means
He's lived a while, and that his life's been built
On being smarter, that perhaps his genes
Are fit to pass on. Why then, quoth The Mike,
Does Grecian Forumula exist? My dear,
'Tis simple: nothing's ever perfect, like
They say, and morons sometimes make grey too, I fear.
But, duped so easily by vanity
To spend their money, it's quite plain to see.

Interstellar Feller: In Which A Message Is Delivered

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...

"On screen!" Pepito bellows, but it's there
Already. There is something to be said
For crewman trapped in fear and forced to wear
Controls for all ship's functions in their heads
Or limbs, or in their guts. Yectara coos
From far beyond the vale of death; her face
A lovely silver. The entire crew's
Attention's riveted. "I knew my place
When I kidnapped you all to serve in this,
My sacred mission. Now I'm likely dead,
But do not weep," she says, and blows a kiss.
"I never was a person. See this head?"
She says, and takes it off. "I was just parts
For restoration of our King of Hearts."

Thursday, January 6, 2011

In Which Peter Greenaway Is Lauded As A Prophet Of Sorts

'Tis Bird-Fall Day, a Violent Unknown
Event occurring world-wide. Faugh! Who could
Predict a thing as vile as this? Who's shown
Such Perspicacity? Well, there is good,
Compelling evidence that someone did.
Somewhere my Allow dictionary waits;
Though Curdine is the one which, were I bid
To choose a language, I would plump for. Fates
Are rarely that kind, though -- and I suspect
That really, what's occurred, a mere backfire
Of efforts undertaken to prevent
A Greenaway-an Uzumaki gyre
Of strange events. We nearly were transformed.
And nobody could say we weren't warned.

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

In Which I Reflect On A Productive Day

If only I could keep this, ev'ry day,
The change that's brought about by knowing that
Procrastination's nothing but a way
To duck the "twinge of starting": that my flat
And dull insensibility is fake;
That work, when I'm deep in it, is a joy
In which I lose myself, in which I make
A day into a wonder. By what ploy
May I remember this, that once I start
I'm happy, and it isn't toil; that chores
Just sound that way; that once I give my heart
To what I'm doing, nothing ever bores
Or pains me? This, perhaps, is my real task
As this year starts to wear on, if you ask.

Monday, January 3, 2011

In Which I Should Have Picked Another Day

What madness is this? Holidays are done
Yet at my local Post Office I find
A sight to frighten, or at least to stun
E'en the most fortitudinous: a line
That stretched from the front counter to the door
And out a bit onto the sidewalk. Each
Who came to join it gasped; we all abhor
Such tests of patience. And indeed, to reach
The hassled clerks took 40 minutes. I
Had promised unknown strangers I would get
Their packages sent off today or die
While trying, as they say, and so I let
The time flow slowly by and simply stared
At all the others' faces, bored and scared.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

Bulletproof Coffin: In Which I Cry For My Fix And Issue Six

As meta-comics go, it is a truth
That often they become, well, tiresome.
That's not so for the Coffin, Bulletproof
By Hines and Kane, though it sure has become
More meta than it should be possible.
The final issue should be in my drawer
This week (that is, unless those daft and dull
Weak masterminds at Diamond make me roar,
Denying me again). I think I see
How it shall wrap up, but there's still a chance
That they'll surprise me! Meanwhile, you who love
Some retro-pulp should snag 'em. How you'll dance
With joy to see the crazy stylings of
These would-be Golden Agers. Feel the love.

Saturday, January 1, 2011

In Which I Make A New Old Russian Friend

My new year's starting off a bit surreal
As I begin a new book that I've had
In my "to-read" pile for long months. I feel
No shame in this delay; indeed, I'm glad
To make this part of this new challenge: to
Devour one hundred books in this next year.
Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky, you're a new
Acquaintance, and already dear!
Your stories, like Pelevin's, make the world,
Though dreary 'neath a bad regime, to shine
With strangeness. I can't wait until I'm curled
Again on my settee with you! A fine
And gently weird, unsettling evening
Right now seems, to me, to be just the thing!