Toronto: In Which I Approach Again My Spiritual Home

Toronto! Soon I'll see the CN Tow'r
From out the tiny window of a plane,
Get lost in Pearson, bus ride through rush hour,
Then rumble 'neath your streets. A subway train,
Then stroll up King Street. Fox & Fiddle, you
Had best be ready with some Guinness, then
I'll prowl again your secret paths, sneak through
Your empty spaces with my dearest friend.
Your parks in spring I've never seen and I,
Unique among your visitors, shall feel
I'm going to warm up there -- snows still fly
And frost and ice still crust the ground, for real
In old Cheyenne. But soon I'll see the world
In just one city. Look! My toes have curled!

In Which December Nights Are Chilly On A Bike

Heat up some soup! Put on the kettle, please!

A nighttime bike ride I did take, and while

I cannot say exactly I did freeze

'Twas cold enough, and this transformed my smile

To a determined rictus as I raced

Against the chill that wanted so to set

Into my bones and stay there. I outpaced

It, but just barely. It sounds nuts, I bet,

But then I ask you, why, though, should I spend

The extra money that I made tonight

On gasoline? Much rather would I send

Me to Toronto in the spring, and light

In Baltimore as well -- and yes, I know

The oil firms are still getting all my dough.

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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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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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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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.

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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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.
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G20: In Which Another Side's Story Is Considered

(Click here to view the original photo by Paul Laroquod

Behind the shields and masks, there still were folk
Who did not drool with eagerness to ply
That riot gear, who sought not to provoke
Nor terrorize the people who did eye
That gathering with distrust, ire or fear,
And exercised their right to say so when
G20 came to town. It's been a year
That's taught us all to rethink what has been
A default notion: our leaders are right
And those who might oppose them, simply mobs,
Unruly, dangerous, and on the fight.
Some of them are just real, working-class slobs
Whose job today put them in a phalanx
Arrayed against democracy. No thanks.

In Which I Am Doubly Powerless

South Africa's a strange place for to seek
Some comforting distraction from my cares,
But coasting toward the end of this crazed week,
That's where my thoughts have rested, and my stares
Have fixed upon. Today, Toronto boasts
A protest crowd of thousands, which contains
My Laroquod among the marching hosts.
He's safe, I know, but craziness there reigns.
So football's been my balm, despite our loss
To Ghana, whose Blackstars I like to cheer
When they're not playing us, at least. The gloss
Of this great tournament's not faded, clear?
But now I cannot help but spend the day
A-willing all the bad march stuff away.