In Which I Regret A Choice Somewhat

Outside the glare is fierce; a strong, dry breeze

Blows harsh across the asphalt and the grass

Is parched. Three-thirty; eighty-five degrees

And I can't get myself up off my ass.

My head aches just to look out windows, and

It's only June as yet. In some despair,

Remembering my thoughts, I understand:

I made the wrong choice back in April. There

Were still spots on the graveyard shift. I chose

These normal hours, must endure the heat

And dust both ways on my bike, unlike those

Who've made the cool of evening their beat.

Next summer, note to self; the wee small hours

Are kinder when one's of limited pow'rs.

In Which I Share A Revelation I've Had About A Famous Television Program

I'm only now beginning Season Three

Of this great program we know as The Wire,

But there is something that I've come to see

That has me anxious, e'en to say on fire

To share: this show's a science program; its

Main focus, ecological. We are

Observers of a complex war of wits

Twixt carnivores and herdsmen, with Omar

An apex predator if ever were

Such given human form. I am amazed

Just watching peaceful herbivores concur

With how they're managed by this pack of crazed

Back-biting human jackals, lions, or

Police and politicians, Baltimore!

G20: In Which Another Side's Story Is Considered

(Click here to view the original photo by Paul Laroquod

Behind the shields and masks, there still were folk
Who did not drool with eagerness to ply
That riot gear, who sought not to provoke
Nor terrorize the people who did eye
That gathering with distrust, ire or fear,
And exercised their right to say so when
G20 came to town. It's been a year
That's taught us all to rethink what has been
A default notion: our leaders are right
And those who might oppose them, simply mobs,
Unruly, dangerous, and on the fight.
Some of them are just real, working-class slobs
Whose job today put them in a phalanx
Arrayed against democracy. No thanks.

In Which I Share Some Folk Wisdom That Works

The best of all protection from the sun
And its most harmful ultraviolet rays,
Is long-sleeved shirts, high collars... that's no fun,
However, if, like most, you have a craze
To show off your well-turned and pasty limbs.
A miracle goop's on the market, though:
They call it sunscreen, which stuff at least dims
The angry red and blistering, you know.
Bar those, once burnt, one remedy remains,
On hand in ev'ry kitchen (one need not
Grow fancy plants or go to special pains
To buy some aloe vera gel); you've got
To splash some vinegar upon your burns.
The smell's not great; but oh, the sweet returns!

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.

In Which I Comment Discreetly On Something That Amuses Me

A certain new device is causing queues
Around the block in certain cities, e'en
Though it has certain problems -- that won't lose
It fanboys, though they know of these, I ween.
The lure of gadget-lust is strong, as they
Already know, for most of them succumbed
To iterations earlier. I say:
It does seem odd that more than two-thirds, numbed,
Perhaps to their old versions' fading charms
(I doubt a million of them just broke down
All at the same time) ran into the arms
Of their sharp produce-dealers in each town.
What now becomes of those forsaken toys
Abandoned for antenna-addled joys?

The Interstellar Feller: In Which An Interruption Occurs

Sonneteer's note: this is the latest installment of an on-going sonnet serial, Pepito Mojito: The Interstellar Feller. New readers can get up to speed by clicking on the "Interstellar Feller" tag below to bring up all installments. Start at the bottom and read your way up to today's...

Flat-footed isn't quite how I'd describe
The manner in which our fine crew is caught.
Flagrante, like a wild Bonobo tribe,
Is more the truth. Not one of them has fought
A certain urge. The ship is humid, rank
And busy; no one notices the drone
That sidles up alongside, fires a beam
Bright pink in hue. Its target is unknown
Since no one's looking, but we wouldn't dream
It's aimed at any but Yectara, who
Stops in mid-stroke and screams "No, master! No!"
"How did he find us?" soon inquires the crew,
Re-donning garments, guilty, on the go,
And rushing for to check, all ire dispelled
By their concern for she who's lately yelled.

In Which I Try A Little Alchemy On A Bad Day

Some days start off so kind, one should suspect,
Immediately -- one's being softened up
For something awful. Where the disconnect
Occurred, I cannot tell, but in my gut
I'm sure it's all my fault. How tempers flare
When summer sets in well, how anger boils
At tiny things, and not one bloke can spare
A moment just to think. In such ways spoils
What could be quite a lovely afternoon.
But when things go wrong, of course one must fight,
Or be thought less than manly. Faugh! It's June.
You're right; I'm wrong and will be 'til tonight
When I get to unplug and pedal home,
While you will still be you, where'er you roam.

In Which I Speculate On Causality

A victory for our Team U.S.A.

Another one for England; wait, there's more:

The grand release of George Hrab's Trebuchet,

The waking of the Cloverleaf beast, or

Paul Laroquod's titanic struggles with

His crummy RSS feed reader and

Some buggy LamdaMOO verbs, or a fifth

And stranger cause: those vuvuzelas. Land

Is sensitive to their vibrations, too,

I have no doubt. Perhaps, though, it was all

Of these, mayhap some odder causes (true:

These all are pretty weird already; call

Me crazy if you wish) did cause to shake

The ground beneath the shield: CanadaQuake.

In Which I Outsmart Myself

Shift trading is a nice thing, quite a perk.
Such practice is how I made Balticon,
And shall make other trips this year. Shift work
Does have its benefits, but look upon
My error on this morning and beware!
Right now my workday really starts at nine,
But she who traded with me, who did share
A need to tweak a schedule. Unlike mine,
Her workday starts much earlier, I knew,
But last night I convinced myself that I
Should be there right at five. That's what I do!
Arriving, my surprised colleagues weren't shy.
"Six thirty's when you're needed," quoth they then.
I sighed and pedaled off, fooled once again.

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Shamelessly Shill For My Friends (And Wish A Belated Happy Birthday)

He's full of it, and newly twenty-one,
Brent Weichsel, and he's ready to unleash
Filmmaking fury on us ere he's done.
His birthday yesterday, today's release
Of Sigler's newest book seems poised to stretch
His celebrations further. Have a look:
Brent's entry in Scott's contest ought to fetch
Him much attention. As for this new book,
I'm psyched as hell to get it. Want it NOW!
Meanwhile, wish Brent belated birthday love.
I'm sure he's quite hung over, bleary eyed,
And wond'ring what that yellow thing above
Him thinks it must avenge on him. Don't hide,
Dear Brent; it's just the sun. Now seize the day,
And may more viewings soon be on their way!

In Which I Channel My Inner Sangamon Taylor For A Moment

I'm mighty but there's really just so much
A woman on a bicycle can do.
This afternoon was an example such
As we may rarely see. I needed through
A busy surface street -- the Greenway's not
Entirely discrete from auto routes --
And it was one thick stream of cars, a lot
More, driving faster than typically suits
A jaywalker's or cyclist's need to slip
Across. While waiting, sev'ral cranky cars
Lined up behind me, honking. I'd have flipt
A gesture but I saw my chance (not ours),
Stared down a biddy, pulled a Sangamon.
She stopped for me but then roared blithely on.

In Which I Take A Stroll Down Empire Avenue

I cannot yet decide if it's a toy
Or a new thing that might just change the world,
This Empire Avenue. I do take joy
In checking out new projects as unfurled.
With thanks to David Forbes, whose stock I own,
For bringing this to my attention, I
Have dipped my toe in these waters unknown.
And if you are already there, please buy
Some stock in me, the Sonnet Queen; let's see
If in this day and age the market cares
For ventures such as mine, in poetry.
'Tis not real cash you're parting with for shares,
You know. Influence peddling can be fun,
Or so they say. We'll see when all is done...

In Which My Preliminary Reaction To A Popular New Book Makes Me Queasy

TV has soaked up free time, it is true,
But I am nervous as I start to read
Clay Shirky's newest tome. I tend to view
New books with generosity but need
To ponder this. It's not that this book's bad;
His own excitement that we can do more
Than sit there now, alone and watching, sad,
Unworthy of our heritage, is, for
A moment quite contagious, but then he
Goes on to cheer how our free time could hence
Be harnessed for collective projects -- see,
That's great, until that view gets too intense
And I'm reviled should I choose not to play
As I'm expected to, a given day.


Epmire Avenue EAVB_JRYBRYMDIN

In Which Group C Sure Do Love To Draw

Nine games so far have ended in a draw
In this World Cup 2010. The most
Have been in one group. Has there been a flaw
Exposed in planning? No: too soon to roast
The FIFA body, though the referees
Are cruising for a scolding. Ever thus
Goes sport. 'Tis why I usually say "Please,
Just count me out" when someone makes a fuss
About a chance to watch it. This is my
One great exception. Though so far it's not
Too pulse-pounding -- Oh look, another tie!
Group C is not the only one we've got.
Tomorrow, Ghana and the Socceroos
Or other matches may yet chase my blues.