If You Can Read This, Thank A Bureaucrat

The cops and firemen are heroes, yes,
The paramedics, and the power crews,
The folks who man the pumps -- we cannot guess
How many we will need of those. The news
Is full of people working to bring back
The world we knew. But let us not forget
The heroes stuck behind the desks. You crack
Your jokes about them, but without them, bet
Those cops would have their cars? The ambulance
Would have its bandages and stretchers? Would
The pumpers have the maps? I have a chance
Right here to thank the people who do good
Behind the scenes, who budget, plan, all that
Can only happen with a bureaucrat.

Sonnet Rant: My Problem with Epic Fantasy

Uneasy is the head that wears the crown,
Uneasy is the ass that sits the throne.
This foolishness, in wisdom, we cast down;
Heredity and leadership unsewn
The one, now, from the other. This is just.
It's right that ev'rybody has a chance
To rise to where he will. So I distrust
This love of kings and nobles; the romance,
The glamor. We look backwards and we feel
A wholly false nostalgia -- and some seek
To drag us back to those dark days! It's real.
Who'd be our feudal lords again just speak
In clouded terms. Remember: kings are jerks.
Beneath each politician's smile one lurks.

In Which A Trial Is Postponed And A Dead Hitchhiking Horse Is Beaten Yet More

Yea, Prostnic Vogon Blago, we yet wait
The redo of your trial. Meanwhile one who
Seeks office, we're sure, thinks that this is great,
His mayoral ambitions safe. "So phew,
Green Putty! Pridsummer," quoth Rahm Grunthos.
Perhaps, though, it is we whose vast relief
Should here be celebrated. 'Twould be gross
Were both of them in court. I'd share the grief
Of those poor Pralites on Rod's jury, forced
To listen to such duets as they'd share.
'Twould harm Rahm Grunthos' chances, though, of course
Were he compelled to go and recite there
Such lines as might defend his Vogon pal.
Shall his intenstine intervene? It shall!

In Which I Rant At Flying Purple Republicrats

I'm really mad at both of you. Bad kids
Should be sent to the corner, but instead
You both continue with your childish bids
To capture my attention. Neither red
Nor blue am I, and this is largely 'cause
You neither of you come a wee bit close
To doing what you've said (to much applause),
And both of you should take a giant dose
Of STFU juice. And yet, I know
That nothing I say here or elsewhere will
Suspend or even slow the endless flow
Of histrionic emails. They won't kill
America, your foes across the aisle,
Without your help. I'll vote, but I won't smile.

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.
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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.

SONNET DARE: The Tastelessness Of Tea

The year was Seventeen Seventy Three,
A tax protest took place that we recall
Right to this day. They dumped a bunch of tea
Right into Boston Harbor. It was all
'Cause of a tax on which they could not vote
Or work in any way for to repeal.
Two Thousand Ten Has come and, now, the quote
Tea Party enquote is not the same deal.
They're far from disenfranchised, free to gripe
E'en if their gripes get somewhat out of hand.
I cannot say their arguments are tripe
Completely but, we have to share this land.
The wheel will turn; again they'll have their chance.
I wish they'd see that and sit out this dance.

In Which Civility Is Longed For

I think of sportsmanship today, and cry

A bit, so poorly honored are its truths.

Today, in victory, one side gave lie

To something we were taught, no?, in our youths:

A gracious winner's what we want to be.

Instead the losing side's called stupid, or

Is wished to illness. Sadly, though, I see

That losing side is just as bad, though more

Is glaring at me from the victors' taunts.

Death threats and histrionics, are they worse

Than sneering gloats? I think not, and it haunts

Me just a bit to see this. While a curse

Is just a word, remember we must share

This world with people we dislike. That's fair.

February 1: A Death Knell Or A Clarion Call?

On paper it so often sounds so good:
Dismantle something big, unwieldy and,
Refocus it to do just what it should,
No more. Let others take what's out of hand
And run with it. As smaller, nimbler beasts,
Adaptable and flexible they'll make
A better show of what always defeats
The lummox. But each one has less at stake
And less to work with than the big one did,
And must, like buzzards, fight over the corpse.
Now, sure, this keeps them lean and hungry, kid,
But all that competition sometimes warps
The progress towards the goal we once all had.
So I can't help it; this day still is sad.

Possible supporting quote passed on by Phil Plait, the Bad Astronomer: "Quote of the day from space telecon: "If you create a beast so large all you can do is feed it, you've done a disservice. "

In Which I Try Not To Fret Over The Constellation Program's Fate

I'm trying hard today not to lose heart,
As rumors fly: a big dream's for the axe
Within the fed'ral budget. Many smart
And plugged-in people say, though, to relax.
The Constellation program's under threat
But it's an empty one, for Congress won't
Choke off that NASA money, not just yet,
That goes into so many districts. Don't
Believe that I'll be sanguine, knowing same,
Although venality's a sure, sure thing
On which to bet. I just think that it's lame
Just as we've found there's water there, we swing
Back to debating what the moon is worth.
Do babies e'er debate the cons of birth?

Sonnet Dare: In Which Blair Enters My Crosshair(s)

From frying pan to fire's quite a trip,
And one that Tony Blair knows very well.
As captain of the Labour Party's ship
In Britain he was often wished to hell
For daring innovations he made, such
As seating legislatures in the realms
Of Wales and Scotland, thank you very much
And Northern Ireland. This overwhelms
The sonnet-form already. Now he thinks
The Middle East should be his new milieu.
As leadership positions go this stinks,
But he had ev'ry chance to say adieu
Retire from the world stage, but instead
He took another burden on his head.

In Which An Anniversary Is Commemorated!

Just seventy-six years ago this date,
A wise decision happened to occur:
That Prohibition by the stupid State
Of alcohol was not so bright as were
Some other things we happened to append
To our fine Constitution. How "repeal"
Rings musically to mine ears. I'll spend
A happy hour quite soon, I now reveal,
A-toasting this, the wisdom of those who
Did vote in 1933 to lift
The ban on booze. I'll have a drink or two
In celebration. Then maybe I'll drift
Into good writing mode, or just play chess.
With freethinkers it's anybody's guess.

In Which I Am Chastened By A Scene At A Fast Food Joint

How old is he, the man we saw at noon,

A whisk broom and a dustpan in his hands,

A cannula connecting his nose to

A backpack tank of oxygen? He stands

Just slightly stooped, a hard-working rebuke

To how we haven't cared well for those folk

Who've toiled their lives away, then by some fluke

Of fate that's really more a bitter joke,

Though well-advanced in years, still find they're stuck

With no recourse but to take on such work

In fast-food clean-up, just to make the buck

Or two he needs to stay alive. The smirk

His supervisor gave us while this wage

Slave shuffled past still calls up rage.

The Great White Handkerchief Can Come Any Day Now, Thanks

Oolon Colluphid's fav'rite cover girl,
Adorning so his first, most famous book,
Has quit her job of making people hurl --
At least from Juneau's mansion. What it took
To make her stop, I really do not know.
I fear she's after Zaphod's job for her
Grand Krikkit party. Please can't someone throw
Her back into the Slo-Time? Or transfer
This real-life Humma Kavula away
To Frogstar Planet B to meet her fate?
O Sarah Palin, what else can I say
That you've not said much worse? I can't relate.
My fluency ain't what it used to be
In Gibberish, and when you speak, I flee.

BONUS SONNET: Mark Sanford, Out To Lunch...

Mark Sanford is no Zaphod Beeblebrox.

Our Zaphod, he is just zis guy, we know,

As Halifrunt would tell us. Sanford rocks

Not one bit, as he bumbles to and fro

From Carolina to the Argentine.

Zaphod just crashed one party, said "Hey doll,

This guy boring you?" and she went flying

With him without a thought, having a ball.

Maria Belen Chapur, though, did cause

Her man to shirk his job, cross continents

To be with her. She did expose his flaws

For all to see. Would Trillian's sentiments

So do to Zaphod? No! Not by a mile.

Ol' Zaphod, with a ten of ten for style?

Iran: Another Lump Sticking In My Throat

The nation I first learned to hate, at nine
Years old, when hostages were what I cared
About, is now in turmoil, with no sign
Of normalcy returning soon. I'm scared
For all the people who just sought to change
Their leadership and exercise their rights,
Now being shot and beaten if in range
Of government enforcers. Will these fights
And demonstrations end at all well? I
Am pessimistic. Ahmadinejad
Himself a hostage-taker, could defy
My expectations or could run roughshod
O'er hopes and dreams, as seems to be his plan.
His next steps will prove much about the man.

In Which A Wiretap Reveals That Roland Burris Was A Vogon All Along!

Today, through wire taps we have unmasked

A fake Dentrassi, who was caught on tape

Maneuvering to save his own sweet -- asked

Repeatedly before, he did escape

The question of his giving quid pro quo

With clever talk -- but now we all may hear

Him whining to the brother of Blago:

His business threatens failure, he has fear

Of going under. Vogon to Vogon,

Does Roland Burris promise to provide

Support for Blago's campaign to stay on

As Prostnic. Before they both denied
That this was how Roland got to D.C.

But this sure sounds like pay to play to me.

In Case You're Wondering, I Don't Support The Death Penalty Either, But That's A Matter For Another Sonnet

I don't care who you are or what you've done,

You don't deserve a simulated death,

A thumbscrew, rack or shock. I am not one

Who cries for blood like some Lady MacBeth;

I'd rather not be screaming at a spot

On hands or conscience. Hurt me and I'll take

The right to hurt you back but I will not

Do so when you're tied down, or to a stake.

You'll stand and face me equally, and if

I can't even the odds myself I'll use

The justice system, slow but sure and stiff.

You get your say, I mine, but I refuse

To act like you, nor would I e'er respect

Such being done on my behalf unchecked.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Channel A Beloved Fantasy Island Character

I hear tell of an island where occurred
A great commotion all 'cause of a plan
To get a brand new photo of a bird
Called Air Force One, or so it all began...
As it did loom o'er sunny island skies,
It surfaced soon that someone had forgot
To tell the man in charge - and this surprise
Has sent him in a rage I'm told is hot!
Oh, Mister Bloomberg/Roark, such a mistake
As this must be a partisan wet dream
Come true. Too bad that you did undertake
To absent your good name from either team.
So as it stands, this flyover's in vain.
All we can do is scream, "The plane! The plane!"

A Module By Another Name... Is Still A Module

While I am one of those who'd gladly name
The third module of our dear ISS
Serenity (a Browncoat hath no shame)

I really do not share in the distress

Of those who watched an upstart named Colbert

Steal Joss' thunder and round up more votes.

I laugh instead, for during this affair

Ron Paul's folks also earned themselves some gloats

And stole Ken Rudin's presidential poll.

These "scandals" move me equally. They're meant

For fun, as are, say, psychic friends. How droll!

So go ahead and fuss, Browncoats, and vent.

Then think about how cool it all would be:

Serenity: The Lunar Colony!