In Which I Enjoy My Flash In The Poetry Pan

(Click to SONNETSIZE image)

I know that this is really just a fluke

Of Amazon and of my awesome friends

Who jumped today to go and buy my book

(It's there now, just like Smashwords). This portends

Not one thing for the future, but today

My sonnets were on this bestseller list!

My name was ranked with Whitman, Poe, hooray!

I feel as though the Sonnet Fairy kissed

My forehead. Thank you all. This gives to me

More motivation, now, to finish work

On getting out that print edition. Whee!

Next week just watch me go all-out berserk

To get it done. Now off to have a drink

With local friends. I've earned that, don't you think?

It Lives! In Which The Lost Robot Head Of Philip K. Dick Speaks Again

The valley most uncanny stretches wide,
E'en when we don't throw in an icon, such
As Philip K. Dick. My guts twist inside
To watch this. He'd have liked it very much,
At least at first. The android's had a long
And storied history, losing its head
In transit years ago. But such a wrong
Cannot go uncorrected, he'd have said
(Unless he said to trash the whole damned thing,
Or put somebody else's on there. He'd
Approve of Linda Rondstadt. "Make her sing
Again!" he'd say, and thus approve the deed).
I think I'm glad the head has been rebuilt,
But find it still quite creepy, to the hilt.

In Which I Should Have Picked Another Day

What madness is this? Holidays are done
Yet at my local Post Office I find
A sight to frighten, or at least to stun
E'en the most fortitudinous: a line
That stretched from the front counter to the door
And out a bit onto the sidewalk. Each
Who came to join it gasped; we all abhor
Such tests of patience. And indeed, to reach
The hassled clerks took 40 minutes. I
Had promised unknown strangers I would get
Their packages sent off today or die
While trying, as they say, and so I let
The time flow slowly by and simply stared
At all the others' faces, bored and scared.

R.I.P. That Big Ol' Tree

Long have we thought it dead, e'er since I bought

The KATE STATION, this tall, unlovely tree

That blocks my bedroom windows (as it ought

If it has been placed for one's privacy),

Though it still sported sickly leaves, a bit.

This afternoon sometime, it snapped right off,

Left five feet standing and twelve gone to shit

Sprawled out across the front lawn, and the trough

That was my day already, deepened. Mom

Reminds me that it could have been much worse:

It fell away from this, my house. I'm calm

E'en as I wonder who runs the tree-hearse

Here in these parts, and also wonder, too,

What made this happen. Wind? It scarcely blew!

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?
Tweet

In Which I Have A Proust Moment Of Sorts

The sound of bagpipes and the sight of plaid,
So vivid, and the taste of weak iced tea,
But why, on a plain Thursday? I have had
A tough time, just explaining what must be
A neuro-hiccough of some kind. Just now,
The revelation struck! A treasured friend
With whom I work has some way and somehow
Begun to smell just like another. When
I was a younger gal, Glen Glidden's home
Was quite a common destination for
My family. Once Glen and Dad did roam
The highways of a night and their rapport
Transcended how they made their livings. Sigh,
So nice to be reminded of that guy.

In Which MacBots Are Brought Together By Another MacBot

How Mac would love to witness what occurred
Today In Cambridge, when two of his friends
Who'd never met before somehow were spurred
To come together through something which transcends
A normal way of meeting. One's Tweetdeck
Was running, and, since I've tweeted a lot
Today, my photo -- really just a speck,
A thumbnail! -- showed up there; another got
The shock of recognition -- hey, that's Kate! --
And felt at home that way. And now they've met,
TransAlchemy and BlazingBetta. Great!
HumanityPlus now can only get
More awesome with them meeting there. I find
I'm jealous, though I'm there within my mind.

SESTINA SATURDAY: In Which It Happens Again

(Digital painting by Jose Anibal Gonzales)

Two fragile, slender twins entered my dream
Again last night, ghosts from another time
Or universe, determined so to haunt
Me through this period. It's passing strange,
That nephews I don't have perturb my sleep
And all my waking hours with the sound

Of plaintive cries. Their fear's a painful sound,
They're stalked by death, these two, within my dream,
A death that is their heritage. To sleep
Is to commune with this pair across time
And wonder what they need from me. Their strange,
Uncanny claim on me's an endless haunt.

Meanwhile, conjured a friend of mine a haunt,
That comes among us without sight or sound,
A program or a virus that eats time,
Attacking clocks and spreading, like a strange
Intelligence, man-made, whose only dream
Is robbing from us hours in which we sleep

Or work, but I suspect it's really sleep
That we would lose by losing. That would haunt
Us all, forced to be conscious all the time
And doubting our reality, each sound,
Each thought resembling something from a dream,
Experience, each one, beyond just strange...

What are these tales for? What could be the strange
Intent of these blond boys, this program? Sleep
Brings questions but no answers as each dream
Spins and careens; we go from haunt to haunt
Of memory and unknown worlds of sound
And sight, familiar and yet not, each time.

Awake, too, in my bed, I watch the time
When Morpheus avoids me, when my strange
Immersions cough me up and ev'ry sound
Is alien, each shadow lack of sleep
Will magnify, another curious haunt.
Exploding head's as weird as any dream.

I love to dream, and do it all the time,
And welcome, yes, the haunt and all the strange
Ideas, but wish my sleep could be more sound.

In Which An Iron-Clad Snail Is Considered

Crysomallon squamiferum's the news,
Not as a brand-new species but because
Defense contractors seek to make some use
Of its sulfur-and-iron shell. The buzz
Is 'bout it's layered structure and design:
An inner layer, highly calcified,
A middle that's organic and a fine
And tough exterior: iron sulfide.
To piercing, crushing, bending, this shell is
Resistant as all hell. It would be great
If people could wear armor such as this
When needed - so damned hard to penetrate!
So cheers now to this funky steampunk snail
And to our friends who hope to don its mail!

In Which A Sea Slug Goes Green

Its kleptomania we knew before,

Elysia chlorotica's, that slug's,

Like other ocean dwellers -- only more

Is going on than just some bugs

Kidnapped and put to work within its gut!

It keeps the chloroplasts it eats intact

And making chlorophyll no matter what.

So like a plant -- and this is no mean act --

It feeds on sunlight as it swims along.

So while it still likes algae for a meal

Its need to do so isn't very strong

As long as there is light it needn't steal

Its energy from other life, although

It still does need to feed somewhat to grow.

In Which I Channel Billy Pilgrim

I do not feel that I am really here.
A flash occurs, and I am lost in space
Or time. So vividly another year
Dwells in my brain I'm not sure in what place
I'd find myself if I could know for sure.
In Boston I once lived and worked and walked,
And in the next-door universe I stayed.
Last night, in dreams, in Bethlehem I talked
With Donna; all this morning I have strayed
Back to that town where I have never been,
Then home to houses that I never bought
But looked at while I chose the one I'm in.
It's not that I'm unhappy where I am
But somehow all this day has seemed a sham.

In Which I Become Concerned That Norway May Fill With Giant Snails

Last night in Norway, in the Arctic sky

Was filmed and photographed phenomena

That's so far ill-explained. I'm glad that I

Am not alone in thinking about the

Great horror manga-movie as I look

At this and read the explanations for

A green light and a spiral. It just took

Mere seconds ere Kurouzu's fate and more

Did cross my mind. O, Higuchinsky, did

You and Junji Ito ever believe

That Uzumaki would, heaven forbid,

Turn out prophetic? Or should we conceive

That more mundane ideas should hold their sway?

A rocket stage, or laser-nerds at play?

In Which I Watch A Strange Convention From The Sidelines (And No, It Is Not Bacon-Con)

I really just don't understand the birds!

Cheyenne's entire population of

American Tree sparrows, or two-thirds

Of it at least, are, for all love,

Now congregated tight in my backyard.

What's drawn them here to me? I cannot guess.

I simply watch them hopping, jostling hard

Against each other in the grass -- unless

The brand-new chilliness has caused

A mass die-off of insects? Winter's change

Makes these birds switch from bugs to seeds. I've paused

Now in this writing because something strange

Just happened: they've all flown up to my fence,

Then flown back to my lawn again. What sense?

In Which I Am Haunted By A Ghost Fleet

I have a fascination with the ships
That carry freight between the continents.
I've often thought of hopping one; yes, it's
Long been an idle dream of mine. Events,
Though, in the world economy have trapped
Five hundred ships just off Malaysia's coast
At anchor with just tiny crews, all strapped
For work and operating funds. A ghost
Fleet it's been called, and it's hush-hush.
A sign of long malaise that contradicts
The good news that so many, in a rush,
Have bleated 'bout recovery. The fix
If such come will move these shipts first,
So I shall hunker down, expect the worst.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Muse On A Strange Literary Trope

A city that's a giant railway train
Seems to me a most strange motif to keep
Encountering in fiction, e'en the strain
Called speculative. And there's a small heap
Of books I've lately read that featured such:
The characters must build the way before
Then tear up rails and ties behind. A crutch
For storytelling? I think maybe more
Is going on than that in these great books:
Mieville's Iron Council, Reynold's Gap,
And Christopher Priest's Inverted World looks
To do it, too. Allusion to the trap
Of civilized life is what I most see,
But still most strange this trope appears to me.

In Which Google Earth Becomes A Tool For Cryptozoologists

Comes news today that someone at last saw

The Loch Ness Monster - no, really he did.

'Twas Google Earth that showed it, to our awe,

Per Jason Cooke, who must have flipped his lid

When he saw via satellite a shape

That matches the supposed plesiosaur.

I just looked there myself and can't escape

The notion that there's something weird, but more

Detail would sure be nice. It's just a boat,

Most likely but it would be kind of neat

If something more came of this strange footnote

In cryptozooligical lore. Sweet

Though it would be at last to know for sure

I think I'd rather keep the romance pure.

In Which I Dote On A Strange Amphibian

Pleurodeles waltl is one strange newt:
Acanthoplus discoidalus has got
A rival for the title of most cute
And gruesome defense. Fresh news it is not
That this guy has this capability:
Victorians knew of it, but we've now
A better guess on methodology.
He swings his ribs right up and out, is how
He first reacts, then comes some poison goo
To flow into the wounds these spears create
In any creature's mouth that tries to chew
Him up! Sometimes this ends in cruelest fate:
Death to the snacker! The newt itself moves on
Unscathed; even the rib-holes heal anon.

BONUS SONNET: SONNET DARE: In Which I Dis On DEHP

So this bis(2-ethylhexyl)phthalate,
Seems omnipresent for a substance which
Has been suggested may cause neonate
Male babies' poor development. That's some glitch,
As miscarriages, too, occur. It serves
As plasticizer; medical gear needs such,
For blood bags, tubes, to help them hold their curves
And shapes. But is it oh so very much
To use in these something that, should it leach
Into a mother's bloodstream won't result
In men with smaller penises, who'll reach
With lower sperm counts once they are adult
That many fewer eggs? Tell me it's not
A most nefarious Viagra plot!

BONUS SONNET: Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, Mac Tonnies

He made me laugh aloud over the air

This afternoon, pretending so to be

A chatterbot. Therefore I thought it fair

To do my best at least to try and see

If I could do the same, give tit for tat.

Mac Tonnies, guest appearing on a show,

To talk about the kinds of matters that

He knows about on real live radio,

I treated to a silly stream of lines

From his own stories in his juvenile

Accomplishment, Illumined Black. All signs

At this hour read "success": at least a smile

If not a laugh I drew. But that's for Mac

To say. If not I'll try more for payback.

Bonus Bonus Sonnet Dare: Of Squids And Beer (And Skids And Cheer?)

Another sonnet dare has come my way,
Inspired in part by some strange public art
Depicting a rare creature that, I'd say
Shows taste and style and signs that it is smart:
The Pabst Blue Ribbon Squid you may see here.
Now, I'm not sure just what it is he seeks:
To cop a cheap feel or a sip of beer,
But it's the oddest thing I've seen in weeks,
And worthy of some poetry of sorts.
Called "I Am Pabst" this mural may not be
An image of what we call indoor sports
Or what looks like some bestality,
But then again it might. Let each decide.
Assasin Grrl may judge while I go hide.