In Which I Must Hunt Up My Bikeskimo Gear

Still on vacation, so I think, am I -
Though far from there, the city I love most-
But in the early morning, I must hie
Me through the dark and chilliness we boast
As Autumn in Cheyenne (it's winter in
All but the name). Deep Blue must carry me
Through shadows to my day gig through the thin
And frosty pre-dawn air. 'Tis time to see
Where all my turtlenecks have got to, find
My Doctor-Who length scarf, and goggles, too,
That I might don the former and might wind
The latter 'round my neck and torso. You
Might find these preparations odd, but rest
Assured that it's all really for the best.


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In Which They Are Multiplying -- MULTIPLYING!

A ticket stub's a simple thing to toss,

To throw away, to pitch, to dispose of,

And yet today I find I'm at a loss

Regarding how these things have -- for all love --

Continued to appear whene'er I wash

The clothes I wore to TIFF screenings last week!

In white-and-tangerine, these bits do quash

My hopes of cleaned-up pockets. With a meek

And tiny mewl I fish them out and sigh.

We emptied ev'ry day, but there they are.

I quipped that they were breeding at the time,

But didn't think they really were. I'm far

From where I got them now, yet still they cling

Like memories of some long-lost dream-thing.

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R.I.P. Wildstorm Comics

There's just a handful on my pull list, yet

I still read news today that makes me sad,

That fills me with more than just some regret.

Wildstorm's no more, and this is really bad

For comics lovers, even if such scrapes

Cross not your radar. I, for one, don't see

Myself enjoying Astro City's capes

A-flying with DC's. It had to be,

They'll doubtless say, but independence lost

Is always worth the mourning. The Big Two

Already bore me vastly; at what cost

Do we preserve the indies ere we're through.

Is Vertigo the next to go? I can't

Bear more such thoughts right now. Instead, I rant.

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Lines Written Circling Pearson International Airport

It's not good-bye, not anymore, not now

That Twitter keeps us well and truly linked,

I tell myself, yet fail to keep my vow

That I would never cry. As such, I blinked

Back tears when parting from my Paul at last.

I shall return next spring, and meanwhile there

Is much to start and finish. Art thoughts blast

My brain; creative mainlining and care

In choosing how we spent this visit means

The well is truly full; work beckons; we

Collaborate and have our own tasks. Scenes

From gleeful planning sessions, setting free

Our wild imaginations boost my cheer,

But I'll not see my loves until next year.

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In Which My Harvest Incurs Merriment

A bifurcation 'twixt us has been found:

As we traversed the traffic islands, I

Did something that elicited a sound

From Paul I'd call a gasp of shock, caused by

My plucking from a tree some traffic fruit --

A mere crabapple, which I ate. I smiled --

I love them so, and it was fresh, to boot!

'Twas yesterday that happened. Now, beguiled

By this so-shocking tale, my Pete and Paul

Amuse themselves exchanging recipes

(Or concepts therefor); and that book we'd call

A Traffic Fruit Compendium. With ease

Comes traffic jam and traffic fruit tarts, and

We'd better stop; it's getting out of hand.

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In Which I Share An Ecomium For A Secret City

I love Toronto; it's already known,

But there's Toronto and TORONTO, dig?

What I love best's the Laroquodal zone,

The Secret City Paul inhabits. Big

And lushly vegetated traffic isles,

Underground commercial PATHs that are

All but deserted after hours. For miles

We traipse through spaces unknown to those car-

Fixated types, those nine-to-fivers, those

Who see no use in emptiness. We find

A post-apocalyptic vibe just flows

Through all and find it sweet. The cast of mind

That lets us so enjoy it is a gift

That lets our transit seem joyous and swift.

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Instellar Feller: In Which Someone Is In Trouble

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...

Our Captain, Droze, now clears his throats. "My Queen,"

He says after a moment. "Quodlaro

And I would like a word now. We're quite keen

To have some questions answered-- "No. Now go,"

She interrupts. "But, how is it that he" --

They point to Pepi -- "Suddenly knows how

To fly the Grokulator?" "Silence!" She

Forgets, though, that her ev'ry word is now

No longer their desire. As they've flown

Through space and time, all craven, now they feel,

These cacogens, ill-used. Now, to the bone

(Or exoskeleton, for some), the real

And white-hot anger rises. They surround

Yectara and Pepito, all unbound.

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Sonnet Dare: In Which Paul Is Locked In Combat Motal

The gauntlet falls, a ringing, mighty thud
(Though really it's just Laroquod when he
Pulls out an indispensable wee dud,
His iPhone, and doth quest for some 3G).
"Lieutenant Gorman, do something!" he cries
(He's dubbed it thus for reasons I'll make clear;
The reference is Alien). How his eyes
Do narrow as his brow knits, and the fear
Doth grip me as he starts his kluge. He must
Because some crucial apps choked in a sync.
His firmware needed upgraded. The bust
Is that the new OS doth truly stink
On older iPhones. Lo, he entertains
Whene'er he tries to use his extra brains.

SONNET REVIEW: In Which I Chortle Through An Improved Christmas Story

"Be good, or Santa's coming," say the Finns.
"He'll spank you all to pieces, you watch out,"
Their children tell each other, all on pins
And needles at the thought of Christmas. Shout
A "Ho ho ho" and watch them scatter. This
Is not a friendly, shopping, merry Claus,
But rather quite a bugbear. I'm remiss
If I keep playing erudite, though, 'cause
I get me lore from filmic awesome, mates.
Rare Exports is the movie, and it brings
The funny till one's face hurts. It conflates
The Great Old Ones with Old Saint Nick and flings
The rulebook out the window. So much wrong
Is righter than the sweetest Christmas song.

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In Which We Try Not To Lose Track

It's all a blur. Paul, can we count them still,
The films we've seen? Begin with Inside Job -
T'was mighty fine. Then Mandoo - what a thrill,
With joys delighting any cinesnob.
The Edge took us to Russia, racing trains
Across Siberia. Then Griff, Invisible
And slightly mad... Next morning we took pains
To watch a Light Thief working. Next I mull
A Lapland Odyssey with a fond laugh,
And Viva Riva, gas thieves hard at war,
Then Break-Up Club -- my god, I need a graph!
A Country Starter doc -- but wait, there's more!
Then Pinoy Sunday... Oh, and then Cold Fish...
We're up to Sunday, at least. Got your wish.

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Sonnet Review: Michael Winterbottom's The Trip

A journey's best when shared with someone who
Leads not, but does not follow, either one,
Who falls in step beside his friend, who'll do
Whatever offers -- hiding from the sun
Or singing ABBA songs, or tasting stuff
One ordinarily avoids; a friend
Who takes the cork out when one starts to puff
With self-importance, one who'll gladly lend
His voice to foolish choruses. Such are
Steve Coogan and Rob Broyden on the road
In Winterbottom's latest, in the car
Or in Lake District restaurants. This code
Prevails here for my own Trip. At my side,
My smiling, good companion on this ride.

In Which A Nation Is Born

Cry havoc! Let the cone of silence lift.

We're starting our own nation, Paul and Pete

And I, and there has been a tiny shift

In foreign policy, and it is sweet.

Our military briefings go like this:

Your main objective's ice cream, but if you

Should happen, on the way, on terrorists

And feel impetuous, by all means shoot.

As long as you don't let it interfere

With ice cream acquistion! T'was inspired

By one cool documentary -- sweet tooths

Just apres film played some part, too; we're wired

Just right to so respond to simple truths

As shown in How To Start Your Own Country.

And yes, our border's open, so feel free.

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In Which We Travel The World From Within A Very Small Space

A rush line's odd enough - much time to chat

With much like-minded strangers -- and one does --

A-trading tips and thoughts on movies that

We've gleefully discovered. And this was

Just part of what has made this day surreal.

Today began in Kyrgystan, then went

To Lappland for an odyssey (I feel

That was my fav'rite). Then lunchtime we spent

Exploring modern Congo - quite a tour!

But we weren't done with travl'ling; Uruguay

Was our next stop, and then, just to be sure

We'd hit another continent, our way

Took us at last to Hong Kong. Viva TIFF

(And thanks for fodder for this sonnet riff).

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Sonnet Review: Inside Job

A run on torches and on pitchforks may
Be what Chuck Ferguson planned all along;
Check his portfolio! I have to say,
As rabble-rousing fare goes, this is strong.
His new film, INSIDE JOB -- the title claims
To answer its whodunnit question, and
It does so. Calling out and naming names
Is always fun, but is there proof? Whose hand
Was on the world's financial till? Wall Street
Could not have screwed us on its own. The folk
Who monitor and regulate them meet
Criteria as those in on the joke
That our economy is now. I found
The interview techniques, though, not quite sound.

Interstellar Feller: Off Again

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...

"--No, wait, that's all, in fact. Just bring him here,"

Her Lord concludes. Yectara, ashen white,

And still in pain, nods, quivering in fear

And sets a course. They head into the night,

The Grokulator's crew, and in their wake

The fragments of the myst'ry planet float

Into oblivion. Of this we make

Just what we will. Mass murderers of gloat

On their achievements; Pepi, though, cannot

Recall just what he's done, it seems; when asked

Just why he did it, he just shrugs. No spot

Appears upon his conscience. Blithe and blank

And happy, he is innocent and frank.

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