In Which I Cheer On A Cool Idea

Plusoneme's time has come; life is a game
And all of us do play it. When we score
Folks should acknowledge it, if not by name
At least by handle. Whether it's a chore
Appreciated, a performance that
One's much admir'd or one wants to thank
In public fashion one who went to bat
For someone's fav'rite cause, bump up his rank
By one in any category. I
Have boosted some already. Thanks to Jane
McGonigal for sharing this; I spy
A lot of ways to use it, in the main.
Did someone show some awesome lately? Go
And take a moment now, to let him know!

To Whom It May Concern: In Which A Better Mathematician Is Recommended

I don't suppose that I hold any sway
'Mongst eschatologists, but if I did
This sonnet would go quite far in the way
Of recommending Nemo for the bid
Of doomsday calculator. Here's a guy
Who draws a perfect circle with no tools
Beyond a pen or pencil. You and I
Would need a compass at the least; such fools
As we have no innate grasp of the laws
Of mathematics as our Nemo hath.
With confidence and without any pause
Could we accept this strange, rare artist's math
And plan to board our pets, know what to wear
For Rapture. Hire him that we may prepare!

BarPG: Hobgobthropology

Repurposing a corpse is what we learn
As soon as we can walk or speak HobGob.
How best to render corpse-oil for to burn
In ribcage-lanterns -- or to do a job
Of lubricating hinges. How to chuck
A severed head to kill or just distract
A concentrating foe takes more than luck;
Indeed, no Hob should fail because he lacked
A tool that could be made from dead folks' bones
Or teeth or hair or dangly bits. A bit
Of sharp corpse-jerky, thrown with skill, alone
Can kill a fresh supply of parts, then it
Is just a matter of some time and thought
(But not so much the raw materials rot).

BarPG: The Sonnet

Hobgoblins, carted off to entertain
The plebes in some arena, soon escape
By jumping through a trapdoor (I'll explain:
It's Player Z at Pauper's: go on, gape),
Then watch their fellows plunge into a pit,
Some landing on a wizard, but are seen
By some old geezer guarding all this shit.
He calls for help but one hobgoblin's keen
Enough to throw a knife into his back!
He turns and fights; they try to kick his balls
And miss! Thank goodness for that brawny Jack
Who made him fall; then Not Sure, poor at brawls
Just slit his throat to bleed him kosher. Not
A bad night's work for woosy goblins, whot?

Thoughts During A Comics Panel On Print Culture

To find a comic book's a special thing;
A message in a bottle, left by one
For unknown others; one has left a string
To mark a path, or made a trail of crumbs.
Online, I must be searching ere I find
Communications. There is no surprise.
I like the ambush, captured and entwined
In thought and story, traps laid for my eyes
In ink and paper, lures and secrets wait
And might just overtake me anywhere:
A coffee shop, a club, an alley, late
Or at high noon. It's very different fare.
Sure, object fetishism is just fine,
But Serendipity's a friend of mine.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

A Sonnet For The Morning After

Do I regret my choices? Sometimes, sure.
This morning I think we would have been wise
To stop, adjourn our fellowship, endure
The pain of parting sooner. Realize:
Nobody held us hostage at the pub
Except ourselves. But good talk never ends
And we had sev'ral all at once, a club
With no agenda. We all know this tends
To make the dizzy hours disappear,
And so they did. Now here I sit, awake
And ready for some more, but how I fear
That maybe, just perhaps, I've chanced to break
My boon companions. My apologies,
My darlings! Can we start again though, please?

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

In Which Is Considered Chronoleptic Tense

While now we talk of future selves, I beg
O Paul, that when you do come to berate
The man you are today, you will not peg
The me who types these lines. This present Kate
Encourages your folly, reckless, wild,
And will be Past-Kate anyway when such
Event occurs, and will have seemed a child
Compared to Future-Kate - oh no! For much
As River and the Doctor might, I've tripped
A chronoleptic trigger! But indeed
We had to have blamed future Paul, who skipped
The niceties of diary-syncing, need
For retro-recognition trumping couth.
He'll make her cry in their shared retro-youth.