In Which We Clear The Way For Siglericus XXX

Siglericus at last may reign supreme,
For Benedict hath left them in a lurch,
Unfortunate to some this might well seem,
But we all know it's best for any church
To have a shepherd for its varied flock
Whose blessings moist are freely given, but
Are never forced. And hey, is April first
So far from now? I feel it in my gut,
The stars are right. So happy we could burst,
Siglerians, rejoice! The XXX
Is just the first of many welcome signs.
Let Krakens rise, let loose McButter! Vex
The nonbelievers! Substitute for wine
The sacrament of gold Tuaca. Drink!
The world is not so flocked as we might think!

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!

SuperGod: Now That's How To End The World, Baby

With London Town destroyed within a page

Of starting the whole story, SuperGod

Is special. Gastonny gets to rampage

On many cities in this comic, broad

And quite ambitious in its concept: we,

Who once got anxious, made a Golden Calf

To worship when no real divinity

Did show itself, made our own gods -- a half-

Assed plan if e'er there was, and soon there are

A British fungus god, a Krishna and

Much stranger beings. "Save the world," we roar

But do not specify from whom. The land

Soon pulses with such horrors only one

(That's Warren Ellis) could make up. What fun!

In Which An Alaska Commuter Flight Passenger Is Crazy As A June Bug

God told her she should do it, duly quoth
The woman who approached and did lay bare
Her buttocks (and indeed, she bared them both
To the propeller, spinning, with no care
Except that she would not die, per her Lord).
Was this a suicide? If so it failed
(Except in scaring those poor folk aboard
The plane!). O David Malki, I must know
What prompted you to seek this story out?
What Wonders in your comic will you show
Inspired by this weird tale? We all do shout
Together with you, 'tis a weird report.
Propeller plunging's now the latest sport?
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In Which I Am Scientifically Immodest (Or Is That Immodestly Scientific?)

'Tis sympathetic magic, is it not?

This notion that a girl's unfettered boobs

Can anger deities, get them so hot

They unleash seismic fury on the rubes.

Today's Boobquake experiment is far

From scientific, but it's funny, so

Though I'm home sick I'm doing my small part.

I'm told the theory's disproven, though:

Taiwan took 6.9 boobquakes today.

Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi

Shall surely soon be having a field day

With this news. So the egg is spread on me

Or in my cleavage; better than my face

Though some might argue either's a fine place.

SESTINA SATURDAY: A Sketchy Offering

Sing gaudeamus; notice them and watch
Their movements and their natures when they're still.
There's much they can reveal; and careful eyes
May linger long on details. Just those wings
May fascinate with their venation, form
And color, all together in one line.

A kind of prayer it is, within my line,
Observing insects is. I keep a watch
For them where'er I go and form
A judgment of a place based on what still
Is there, take my delight in what takes wing
Around me, an intruder in their eyes.

Minute and captivating, how my eyes
Are strained to take in each and ev'ry line
Of these small aliens among us. Wing
And tarsa, spiracle, cerci - just watch
Each tiny miracle emerge, and still
There's more to see within this strange life form.

My love for them takes on, now, this new form:
I sketch one ev'ry day. Before my eyes
My pencil conjures them, though I am still
A duffer at this art. Each shaky line
That firms up is an offering. I watch
This happen e'en as all my thoughts take wing.

That entropy increases, says this wing
Beneath my gaze, must be a lie. This form
So intricate and tiny; the innards of a watch
Are not more orderly. These compound eyes
Assembled of mere proteins, all in line
Embody order. Hush now, and hold still.

As yet I still must work from just a still,
Unchanging photograph. Gone are the wings,
Just eggs and nymphs sleep underground. Each line
I make is secondhand, but soon each form
Will be there right before my own two eyes
In nature; all I'll have to do is watch.

Till then I must keep watch through the long, still
And wintry chill. My eyes long for those wings.
For now I am content to form these lines.

In Which I Muse On A World In Which Henry Purcell Is God

Baroque, complex and lovely: so would be
A world where Henry Purcell was its God.
'Twould matter not if actually He
Existed or not. If real the facade
He'd place on His creation would hold fast
To fine ideals we'd strive to emulate.
If just a figment, still his unsurpassed
Oeuvre we'd dreamed up sure would mitigate
The flaws we have as creatures. And the spheres
Would elegantly vibrate -- this although
Our understanding snagged up on the gears
Of Nahum Tate's plumb awful libretto.
An artist who can transcend stuff like that
Could knock Jehovah into a cocked hat!