In Which I Am Awestricken By A New Fashion Accessory

Were I a guy who had to wear a tie

Would I choose one of these under my suit?

While certainly these beauties catch the eye,

Displaying all the best hues of a fruit

We call the Apple iPod nano, is this not

Solution for a problem of which we --

Be honest -- didn't know that we had got?

Accessories like this fill me with glee.
My old-school iPod shuffle just clips to

A collar or a hemline: there I go!

With this "Commuter Tie" one won't see, true,

The actual device, but still there'll show

The telltale earbud cords. Plus, changing songs

Looks to be pretty awkward. Fashion wrongs?

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 Believe I'm Staying In Tonight After All

Martinis with the girls, that was my plan
To celebrate what is my Friday night.
But as I find a window and I scan
The snowy streets, one fact doth come to light:
What now is fluffy snow will get packed down
By rush hour's vast herd of cars and trucks
Until quite nearly ev'ry road in town
Could double as a hockey rink. Aw, shucks.
I do have errands that had best not wait,
But they can happen ere sunset and then
It's best that I head home. T'will be too late
By then to venture safely out again.
Perhaps if holidays weren't here to cause
A surge in drunken drivers I'd not pause.

In Which I Ponder A Strange Metaphor

This morning, as I rose ere dawn, we had
A temperature of Zero Degrees "Eff"
(With emphasis on "Eff"; I won't be bad
And spell out what that stands for). Some foul theft
Of all our warmth had happened in the night,
And sunrise did not bring us more. It's cold -
More so than a well-digger's butt, all right,
As my friend Bonnie eloquently told
Her Facebook friends, which prompted a profound
Discussion, how the baseline readings came
To be established? Did one ask around
And quote well-diggers' feelings name by name?
Or was data - empirical and real
Recorded. Just how cold did each butt feel?

In Which A Favorite Musical Icon Turns Sixty!

December Seventh lives in infamy
But it's also a day to celebrate!
Pearl Harbor took its blow in history,
But something lovely happened this same date!
Tom Waits was born, whose music changed the game.
A smoky, growly voice, like to a drink
Of bourbon on an empty stomach. Name
Me one more guy whose songs so make one think
Of seedy sadness e'en as one rocks out.
Percussion with found objects, horns and things
I can't identify all make me shout
With glee on hearing them, e'en ere he sings.
Nor doth he make just music: look right here.
He's also had a nifty film career!

Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, Mizz Carla McDonald

A Southern belle is always one at heart,
So I discovered yesterday once I
Had published, on a dare, a poem, in part
About a great impairment that is my
Achilles' heel at work: how such folk speak.
It's not that it's not charming, even cute,
As my friend Carla knows - it leaves men weak
I'm sure, to hear her sling it. No dispute.
But when a guy with one just cuts right loose
With deformed vowels and drops his consonants
In serious situations, there's no use
In pondering my preferences or wants:
I just plain have to tell them "come again?"
And vent a bit of spleen, just now and then.

Sonnet Dare: In Which I Have A David Lynch Moment

At old beaudacious Bard, we used to say
Of those times when what happened got too weird,
One explanation only could hold sway;
One possibility 'mongst those that reared
Their heads could be the truth: that David Lynch
Was hiding in the room, mast'ring the scene.
The man who made Eraserhead to pinch
Our twenty-year-old brains, crafted the keen
Hilarity of that Blue Velvet flick,
And made of Dune a less coherent tale
(Though visually awesome) -- no mean trick --
Than Herbert did -- that David, without fail,
Had taken over the directorship
Of these, our lives, so suddenly a trip.

Sonnet Dare: In Which The Accent Is The Thing

My daily life brings me against a lot
Of challenges that many find bizarre.
Time management, of course, as who has not,
For instance, but for me it's the Boomhauer
That really drives me round the bend when one
Addresses me (I've sev'ral in my care).
There is no accent spoken 'neath the sun
That I can't comprehend except that there.
Ascemic writing holds for me more sense,
And I find glossolalia a breeze,
But no, it's Bubba-speak that has me tense,
Uncomprehending, yes, and whimp'ring "Please,
Just speak some English I can understand.
Or send me an interpreter? How grand!"

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 Get Excited Over A Tournament Draw

No sports fan am I, save for this one round

Of football games that make of me a nut:

The FIFA World Cup. No way I have found

Has ever kept me out of this one rut.

'Tis only ev'ry four years this occurs,

When I become a lunatic. Today

Preliminary groups were drawn, which spurs

My craziness. England v. USA?

The Germans and the Aussies? Oh my head

Already spins. Brazil and Portugal

Are in a group together, "of the dead"

And though Croatia won't be at the ball

I still feel now the ghost of my old craze.

One hundred eighty seven more short days!

Friday Flash: In Which Desperate Times Call For Desperate Measures

Sonneteer's note: this is the fourtheeth installment of my sonnet-by-sonnet summary of a larger work, The Interstellar Feller, to be released sometime next year. To see the story so far, check out Part the Oneth here, Part the Twoth here, Part the Threeth here, part the Fourth here, Part the Fiveth here, Part the Sexieth here, Part the Seventhuth here, Part the Octthhhh here , Part the Ninth here, Part the Tenth here , Part the Eleventh here, Part the Dodecothhh here, and Lucky Number 13 here.

"Turn back, or we'll disintegrate you now,"

The Grokulator's crew feels foes convey.

Yectara grits her teeth, lets out a howl,

And launches toward a console. On her way

She plants a kiss on her Pepito's face,

Then screams out "Brace for Field Maneuver Three!"

And punches in the code that lets them race

Far from the scene, the code that sets them free.

Pepito, knowing not what next to do,

Just watches dumbly as his fellow hands

Curl into tiny masked balls; soon the crew

Like so many pillbugs just float in bands

Of velvet black. And then there comes a rip

Through time and space that frees them and their ship.

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 Pass A Pleasant Afternoon

My Bonfire is a special kind of gal,

She's curious, amusing and will try

Most any crazy thing I think of. Shall

I tell you how we made a lunch hour fly

And turn into a total afternoon?

First sushi lunch, Cthulhu on some rice,

I had Sapporo, too, but she was soon

To head to work, which wasn't all that nice

But we made good the time we had. What more?

The sushi joint just happens to be near

Our friendly local Barnes & Kipple store

(The tale behind that sobriquet, I fear

Is too involved for this here sonnet). Just

A simple, perfect day. Repeat we must!

In Which I Prepare For A New Adventure!

It's Friday in my strange, shift-working world,
And nearly time for me to call it quits.
I stretch out with a smile, my limbs uncurled,
Preparing to go north to match my wits
With my friend Jana on a real chessboard
Instead of one on Facebook, and to quaff
Some margaritas. I'll emerge restored,
I think, from Chugwater (now don't you scoff;
It may be podunk to the untrained eye
But it is all about who lives there, no?)
I'm sure that soon the time will simply fly
Too swiftly and 'twill be time to come home.
Oh -- wish me luck, would you? She's kicked my ass
Of late. I'm tired of losing; e'en with class.

In Which Iambic Confetti Is Thrown For Phil Rossi

A troubador who scares one sexy is
Our dear Phil Rossi, but that's far from all,
There's music, too, when he reads one of his
Great podcast novels; that Virginia drawl
And growling voice is perfect for those tales.
If you'd prefer some print, here's Crescent, creeps
In space for all. I've gladly watched its sales
A-soaring; 'specially as our boy just keeps
On having wee ones. Piper joined the crew
Just days ago! And Phil's started a blog,
Not Just a Dad. You see why I say "phew!"
To top it off, he has a way with grog.
So all signs say his birthday will be made
Of finest win. Such shall be our crusade.