We Have To Quit Meeting Like This, We Have To Quit Meeting, We Have To Quit

We're just here once, and, really, it has been
So long already since we two were born.
We've wasted time; it really feels like sin
To waste much more. We two, though, sad and worn,
Still fail. I flail, between our meetings, and
Forget you. Watch me now: I cry, I spit;
"Act like you give a shit," is my demand
Whene'er your arms come 'round me, as though it,
That one embrace, makes up for months, as though
You have the right to tell me "Come on back,
Drop ev'rything, do what I want." I know,
It's only me, old friend, who feels the lack
Of thought behind it, and who feels the pain.
Sunk costs are paid. What now is left to gain?

In Which I Guess I'm Progressing Nicely

I'm in the anger phase again, I guess.
That phase where I just want to tear my hair,
Lash out and tell the world to f*ck off. Yes,
I'm mad I've lost another friend, don't care
If I hurt feelings, even if it's one
Who lost him, too. How lucky, then, that I
Share space with no such person. Ah, such fun
To cry within a cubicle. Nearby?
Banality and pointlessness all reign.
I'm trapped amongst it, teeth grinding in rage
For one more hour, then home to nurse my pain
In silence and in solitude. This age
Of distant loves and close connections brings
Sublimity, but also horrid things.

In Which I Agree With South Park Children About Summer

The stupid sun just blazes in the sky
And I'm too close to it, here in Cheyenne,
Though I'd be closer back at home. It's dry,
But lo, it burns like napalm when it can.
When waves of it are visible, and when
The wind forgets to blow, when e'en the birds
Tweet less, I think of all the times I've been
Prostrated by the summer time. No words
Can e'er convey my sunburn's pain; no balm
Can comfort it, save vinegar, which stings

As much as it stinks also. But I'm calm.

I'm almost home, where, among other things

A ceiling fan and lemonade await

If I can make it. If not, good-bye, Kate.

In Which PTSD Is Irrational And SUCKS

Four months ago, I did my best, and all
Turned out as well as anyone could hope.
When needed, I stood up and took the call,
Did what was needed, managed, then, to cope
As is my wont. I only fall apart
When crisis moments are well in the past --
A handy trait, but how it breaks my heart
When things are calm and I feel it at last.
Today the one I helped is back and I
Spoke to him for the first time, businesslike
And distant, as required, but, though I try,
To stop it, the adrenaline does spike,
I choke on tears and four months disappear.
It's like it's happening right now and here.

In Which The Annoying Side Of Winter Comes Early

O wind, I've had enough of you. The snow

That fell so lightly last week blew away.

The trash you blew into my small yard, though,

Won't budge now. All of it is here to stay

Until I trudge outside and pry it loose

From plant stalks, branches, fenceposts - these all clutch

At what they've caught, tenaciously. Profuse

Enough, the snow we'll have -- too much,

Some folk will say -- but it at least can hide

The plastic bags and flyers, wrappers, junk

That flies around, breeze-tossed, both far and wide

Until it comes to me. Here comes a hunk

Of Taco Bell refuse right now. Come back,

Dear snow, and cover up the verve I lack.

In Which I Rant At Flying Purple Republicrats

I'm really mad at both of you. Bad kids
Should be sent to the corner, but instead
You both continue with your childish bids
To capture my attention. Neither red
Nor blue am I, and this is largely 'cause
You neither of you come a wee bit close
To doing what you've said (to much applause),
And both of you should take a giant dose
Of STFU juice. And yet, I know
That nothing I say here or elsewhere will
Suspend or even slow the endless flow
Of histrionic emails. They won't kill
America, your foes across the aisle,
Without your help. I'll vote, but I won't smile.

New Twitter: In Which We Are Not Impressed

Did someone clamour for these features which

New Twitter's thrust upon us all, I ask?

'Tis like a change in Facebook; with each bitch

I read about it, I put off the task

Of dealing with the update longer yet.

I am no neophobe, but do prefer

My stuff to work, and feature creep don't get

Me too excited. Now I see they err

Still greater; tweets are disappearing, too,

Except the ones I've saved as favorites,

From some accounts. It's April 4 for you,

Still earlier for others. As one splits

Until this all blows over, I am glad

At work I'm stuck on IE6! That's bad.

Migraine Day 2

There's only so much time that may be spent

Within a darkened shower, crouched below

A torrent of hot water, limbs all bent

To fit within the bathtub. Soon the flow

Becomes a cold one; fingertips turn prunes

And joints begin to ache. If it's not gone

By then, it's going to stay. Forget those tunes

You thought you'd play, the plans you'd dote upon

For doing anything; the world is small

And cruelly sharp; it pierces senses, roils

The stomach 'til it empties and the gall,

Its taste remains e'en as the scen'ry boils

Before the eyes. I do not want to be

The person this is happ'ning to. Not me.

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.

Tweet

Fan Expo: In Which We Are Not Amused

Oh noes! This Expo has attracted fans

In numbers greater than the hall can hold!

A mob outside the doors -- paid up -- now chants

"Let us in!" while inside -- it's getting old --

Another mob is gathered in the hopes

Of escalator rides up to the floor

With wonders that they came to see (poor dopes!)

And maybe buy, must wait around still more.

The hall is full, quoth fire marshalls, thus

No one may now ascend until some make

The downward journey. Till then, pooh to us

Who paid our money. How much must we take

Ere we revolt? At least the panels should,

And really now had better, be quite good.

Tweet

In Which I Am Editing

This sonnet-writing's tightened up my prose,
Which was a goal I had back at the start.
I cherish this but now I've got my nose
Deep in a slash-and-burn, I find my heart
Just wants to break; I have to cut much more
Of what I thought already nice and lean.
I've got more notion, though, of what it's for,
These words and thoughts, but still I think it's mean
To hack and cut as I must do. I tell
Myself the final product then will shine
The brighter, but right now a kind of hell
Or something near it surely, is all mine.
And deadlines, self-imposed or even not
Just make this seat of mine a little hot!
Tweet

In Which My Day Is Loud And Fragrant

Infested now, my neighborhood, with such

Variety of workmen as I find

Impossible to name them all, has much

In common with disaster zones. I wind

Around its streets and cul-de-sacs aboard

Deep Blue and see some roofers, yes, and by

My "circle's" deepest curve, not just a hoard

Of all-but-shirtless men, but also -- fie! --

A reeking porta-potty twixt a pile

Of sand and some huge trucks. The din's profound.

It's gypsy contract season. With a smile

And promise of low pricing all around,

They've sucked in all my neighbors, it would seem.

How long will their work last, though, do you deem?

In Which A Technology's Use Is Past Its Prime

Once quite a boon, they now cause teeth to clench
E'en though they now can play a fav'rite song
When interrupting us. Oh, how they wrench
Attention from important tasks is wrong,
And yes, it could be less so, what we do
When suddenly they chime or screech or ring.
The diff'rence 'twixt these states, one has no clue
When he's the caller. "Drop it, stop that thing
Right now" is what's conveyed when a phone call
Cuts in. And it's resented. Minutes flee
From both of us. We needn't be in thrall
In this way, not these days, oh, don't you see?
A chat or visit's one thing when we're far
Apart, but otherwise? Texting's the star.

In Which I Commit A Stupid Error

To make sense now is daunting, even though

I did just sleep for sev'ral hours. It's

My fault and no one else's, as you know.

The day gig's short on staff -- this is the pits,

But it's an opportunity to lay

Aside more funding for my coming jaunts

Whereat I'll wander, meet new folks and play

(I hope) some games. Today, though, this just haunts

My body and my soul. My error lies within

Accepting overtime piecemeal without

Considering the pieces' fit within

A larger context of a day. A bout

Of sleeplessness of nearly twenty-four

Resulted. Brain's a puddle on the floor.

In Which I Vent A Little Resentment

Some days, the walls close in and I don't think
I'll ever finish what I must, again.
Some days just pass right by me in a blink,
With naught accomplished. It's at such times, when
My promises heap high, as do my needs,
Just when I'm powerless to make things so,
And more rebukes grow tall like backyard weeds.
Life's short, uncertain; all of this I know.
What's gone unfinished just might well remain
That way. My chest grows tight, my face goes red
Each time another chore comes up to drain
The energy I dearly hoped to spend
On my own projects, when my time is mine
Again. But I'm employed; I should not whine.

In Which I Am Slightly Handicapped

Some metal and some velcro form a case
Of fabric 'round my wrist which I dislike,
Though it's for my own good -- this I must face
Each time it hits the wrong key and a spike
Of rage appears within my cranky brain.
I've logged off in the midst of taking down
Important words, and unexpected pain
Has made me use the language on which frown
My overlords. But all could be much worse!
Naught's broken and the dominant's intact
(My left is caged; the right is free). I nurse
No grudges, though it's true I oft react
As though I did. I simply must wait for
These tissues to heal up, and nothing more.

In Which I Lament Something That Is Lacking In Summer 2010

July's begun, a time when many seek
Surcease from scorching in the cool and dark
Of friendly local cinemas. I weep,
Though, as I once again survey the stark
And hopeless offerings for these great screens
This season's bringing. This year, there's not one,
I care to see at all. Some say this means
I'm just too picky; no, I have some fun
At stupid 'splodey blockbusters, as long
As they have ought to recommend them save
A bloated budget. Is it just so wrong
To want a story with what goobers crave
(A lot of CGI, they guess). I rue
This year. I think I'll stick to Doctor Who.

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.

In Which I Give My Inner Ahab Free Reign

Cetaceans once were of my great concern,
In first grade when my good friend, Monica,
And I sought out a worthy cause to earn
Some merit as Girl Scouts or something. Uh,
But that was long ago, and while I still
Don't dig the whaling industry, I find
That sometimes I would not regard as ill
The feel of a harpoon in my hand. Mind,
The whale that I would hunt swims not the seas
Of Earth, but of the internet. The sight
Of this behemoth's guaranteed to tease
The gentlest soul with ev'ry urge to fight
That nestles yet within our seething brains.
I'd really love to share with it my pains.

In Which My Least Favorite Season Decides To Start

Another reason that I do not love

To live where I do happened just a bit

Ago. The warnings were quite faint above

My music as I took my gloves off, quit

A-hacking at my backyard overgrowth

And betook to enjoy some TV shows.

Instead I cranked the radio and both

Laughed and whined; there may be tornadoes!

'Tis nearly 32 years since one ripped

Through town in '78; we well may

Be due for yet another. We are gripped

Firm in the angry glove of Thor. Someday

These warnings might apply to me and mine,

But for today, I do assure: I'm fine.