In Which I Wish Atlantis FSM Speed (And Pay No Attention To The Tears)

Few things on earth excite me like a launch
Of big tin cans of people into space.
And often many tissues, for to staunch
My tears are needed; I screw up my face
And cry in pride and awe (and jealousy).
Today's was diff'rent, though; there's only two
More shuttle missions left, then we will be
A-paying fares to Russia. I am blue
E'en as I wonder with dear IsoBan
How can the generation who first tried
Not join me in deploring this odd con,
This bait-and-switch. Manned space travel has died
In my homeland, and with it my pastime:
"Winos For Souyeuz" won't be fun to rhyme.

In Which I Rue A Wasted Day

I got a bit of a late start, it's true
But that explains not how it's five o'clock
And I'm on just my first shot of black brew
And only now have op'ed my mouth to talk.
When one lives by oneself this is a risk:
Entire afternoons can disappear
Quite wordlessly if outside there's a brisk
And bitter wind to keep her indoors. Here,
The sun has gone to bed and I've not done
A thing I planned to do save laundry. Now
On overtime I sit at work. No fun!
While projects languish back at home, and how!
A sin it is to waste my time that way,
I've even missed the blue and red and grey.

In Which I Don't Even Try To Dress It Up - I'm Angry And I'm Hurting

A week has passed; my tears have mostly dried

But I am far from healed; I'm angry still.

Still can't quite grasp that Mac Tonnies has died,

Keep watching for him, wond'ring what he will

Dig up for us next. Anger chokes my throat

Each time I look and find him gone again.

Did people in his call center e'er note

Just how remarkable he was? But then

How well do I know my work-mates? Something

Has got to change, to stop, has got to give.

That wondrous Mac went unmissed three days? Bring

Me tissues, please; I'm crying more. We live

In heartless times when how someone's first missed

Is by a distant friend he's never kissed.

Meta-Sonnet: In Which I Dream Of A Better One

Today I wrote a sonnet in a dream,

Dreamed, too, that I had posted it right here,

Where this attempt is now. But it would seem

The adder whom I dreamed stole it. I fear

It was the best one that I ever wrote.

I certainly believed this as I slept.

I reach now for it, just to watch it float

Away. I sit and wish now that I'd kept

On sleeping, even though t'would be a waste

Of precious time, called free, that's really not

At all free. How I live my life, in haste

To reach these days, only to nap and rot

When they arrive! And yet, shining and rare

That sonnet, dreamed of, still awaits me there.

IN MEMORIAM: David Foster Wallace (February 21, 1962 – September 12, 2008)

One year ago today, he broke my heart,
Though it was not the first time he did that.
In 1996, he tore apart
My brain. His tale of a filmed samizdat,
Addiction, tennis, school and Boston gave
Me dizzy spells e'en ere the weirdness hit.
It pains me that his humor could not save
Himself, but there are limits to what wit
Can do, footnoted or not. Greedy, I
Will most miss his non-fiction pieces, which
Could make the world a bit more strange. I'll cry
Again today for him. He made me rich
In stored enjoyment, and I thank him for
What he could give us. Wish there were some more.

BONUS SONNET: A Friend I Wish I Did Not Have

I have a friend who only comes at night

(And not that kind of "comes," O dirty minds),

Informally; I never need invite

Her in. She's clever, and she always finds

A way around my booby traps and snares,

And takes her tiresome seat beside my bed,

Says "You're awake! Oh good!" and calmly stares

And waits for me to pay her mind instead

Of sleeping tight. She thinks it's much more fun

Regaling me with past misdeeds and gaffes,

Or taunting me with things I've not yet done

And prob'ly never will, and cruelly laughs.

"INSOMNIA, bitch goddess, get thee gone!"

I cry. Then morning NPR comes on.