Weekly Sonnet 34

And, lo,

Thine heart divine, thine wine with me imbibe,
Love. My soul for thee doth pine. They were sore
afraid. Pakistan is a genuine
nuclear power, democracy is
compromising the powerless, a bore
is a straight line that finds wealth in divis-

ion. (Mystery of the Missing Heiress)
[Murders Them All] (Jahannan Press Statement
Two-step) I explain the facts and digress.
“Facing a dying nation,” says the Tribe.
We’ve found a crushed glass pickle ornament;
when snow be white, surely our tests—(Oh, fine).
Standing on my toes I reach for a star,
so the world can see who you really are.

Weekly Sonnet 33

Pushing Through the Market Square (Tomorrow)

(Can you imagine what five years from now
will bring? Which idol will (gallantly) rise?
Brightly sing do the Ray Conniff’s to thou.
Green and red are always upon your eyes.
The way that you talk is miraculous.
(You’re beautiful.) It sounds a bit bizarre.

Nothing weekly can be meticulous
or relevant. But things the way they are,
I find (no) assurance in John Titor
I never thought the future would be fun
for me. There’s no change (left) in the meter.
Are we evolved as to ever be one?
The first croaking frog could have imagined,
cynically, all these words within the wind.)

Weekly Sonnet 32

That’s right Agnes, just go out and greet them in your usual warm-hearted manner.

Let’s not discuss the destroyed tapes (sorry).

Mis’ess Hamilton (I ain’t saying she’s
a gold-digger), her man’s wealth could ne’er please,
knew all sorrow. Some people got no choice,
the loathsome shame of never knowing want.
Dudley: an idea, disperse the shades
of gloom and sadness! In skates I am re-
born. How gauche these elaborate desserts.

(Egg custard, sir?) Remplir les cieux d’un chant
vaincueur! And they can never find a voice.
“Make it easy on yourself,” reasserts
Sally Brown’s wishes, Charlie’s feeling fades.
(Messiah complex.) Naturally cur-
ly hair remains when e’er dust does occur.

Weekly Sonnet 31

(Queer Theory) King Moonracer

It’s the most wonderful day of the year.
A feminism class will forever
stir how you watch Rudolph (means slips slips hers).

Fact: Senator Larry Craig is not a
homosexual; he is a pervert.

Nothing ever too fabulous: I’ll lay
out fine china on the linen, polish
up the chrome. Hermey wears not a mesh shirt,
there’s always tomorrow, the snow doth swish.
Wake up!—With ringing cheer and joyous shout,
chill—Don’t you know that it’s time to come out?
(What the HELL have you got back there, reindeer!?)
Please do join me in my important search
for Dust, and boycott the Catholic Church.

Weekly Sonnet 30

Cake!

Je suis très désolé mon companion
cube.  GLaDOS: soothingly in kindest voice
brought guidance and terror (Playful turrets.)
Let us fly to a far-off land,―Le gât-
eau n’est pas faux—where peace and plenty dwell.—
Jumping through the layers of an onion
never stopping (THEN I’LL DIG A TUNNEL).

Please do not pretend that I have a choice;
Test Chamber nineteen nearly murdered me.
True: never do our alternate lives mat-
ter.  (Too late! Too late!)  Marie-Antoinette’s
selfishness is (Set us free! Set us free!)
today’s socialism.  That come what may,
it must endure...such love is like a ray...

Weekly Sonnet 29

William Bradford (Dramatic!)

All the summer there was no want. It’s just
a plain pantsuit! Goodie Dickson (because
it is her name; because she cannot have
another in her life!) would say, “access-
ories make an outfit.” Be gaudly.

Our splendid cornucopia would bust!
Because a pumpkin pie slice will not halve
itself, fit up our houses and recess
against winter. Be witness, God: our flaws!

Cranberry sauce shows no resilience
in an opaque can though yams do oddly.
May and Flower: bless you with our presence.
Miss Wanda Sykes says (tolerance gone south)
“I’m playing a goddam apple!?” (no mouth!)

Weekly Sonnet 28

Reading Invitation to a Beheading in Cadillac

The copy still has the original
plastic dust-cover cover with wood-grain
patternèd trim—textured brown, anyway.

(Alternate title: Explaining Deer Day
to Everyone Else.) Page twenty-one stamp
as usual. Is it not horrible
—O!—that Christmas music is already
being complained about? The truer pain
will be next week: “Da Turdy Point Buck.” Vamp
me some “Alice’s Restaurant,” please do.

All the schools have the day off (I’ll meet you
down at the Big Yellow Joint). Remedy
this Orwelled mood of mine. (Every other
year, proudly.) Be (not) always Big Brother!

Weekly Sonnet 27

In the Bleak Pre-Winter

Our God: (Ah, cruel! Tu m’as trop entendu!)
Heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain.
Actually, it’s entirely melted now
but a Northern Michigan November:
those unbrilliant flakes are overdue
(Refer I not to the CAPS musical—
This year: The King and I, I feel disdain
(whenever) He bows, you bow, we all bow.

Ten minute scene changes are always dull.
et cetera, (One-two-three, AND) ceter-
a, et cetera. Next month: Talent Show—
Dolly Parton medley, homemade banjo.

Regardez at our yard and you’ll have found
all our leaves lying yet upon the ground.

Weekly Sonnet 26

Would You Ever If I Leave

With abyssing eyes your last pitch arrived
in the Captain’s hand and thus it ended.

(Any one who decries your style: “contrived!”
but suddenly enjoys this Limited
is a phony.)  I could have spread my wings—
Last night there was an Autumn Angel: black
robes with appliqué leaves, halo de l’or.
(So are you, what?)—and done a thousand things.
(After seeing Natalie exposée
who could possibly still have begged for more?)
Indeed, commentator Joe Buck did say:
“Jub-Jub” (confirmed on slow motion playback).

Jonathan Papelbon’s golden stubble,
(Wes Anderson’s ne(at&t)idy bubble).

Weekly Sonnet 25

BECKY BARNETT! (Treason Jingle)

I am conflicted. One guy, the incum-
bent (well, not really (it’s complicated:
the Old Guy (Two Thousand Three election,
(the lesser of two conservatives) I
wasn’t there to cast mine) his attention
is elsewhere)) is the Republican choice.

The party appears to me as some wed-
ded monarchies and no other thing (why).

William S., the official songwriter
of Cadillac with Phil Collins-y voice.
How lucky to not, after the mushroom
arrest, be disbarred. I’ve seen signs azure,
red and white. Character Counts! Hope (in throngs)
he’s too busy to write more sappy songs. 

Weekly Sonnet 24

The New Set

Ugly was not the word, looking at it.
Plinko and the Big Wheel are much the same.
Drew, for Sarah Silverman goes bluer,
Attired not in the Rockabilly bit:
Ties thin like a Barker’s Beauty. A shame,
Etoiles last no longer than forty. Grand
Dots consume a whole wall the color of

A lamé dress. Now: models wear sequins,

Dots: maroon shine less in cameras newer.
Etoiles: Liza pushed in retinas: pins.
Carey not as frail as a sickly dove
Allows hugs more freely, his horned rims and
Dots voit ton chouette gagnes et joi dans les
Etoiles. More ethnic beauties: better days!

Weekly Sonnet 23

Colónoscopy

How westly did you come and pox us so!
And no east did you find; Magellan did, died.
An age of Reason (Not at all. But, but
but you keep hangin’ round me and I’m not
so glad you found me.) Issy lives wildly,
the reign in Spain gains tamely by the aim.

On Saint Mary and child, princess of woe!
The world is expanse, the ocean is wid-
er. An old steak sits better in my gut.
Now sodium benzoate prevents rot.
China trades US tainted products snidely
taking the lead, the power without shame.
See the altering, those who have the least.
(A rich, young man who would become a priest.)

Weekly Sonnet 22

Adventures in Misanthropia

Siam (if you thought Iran was so far
Away) in trouble inconstant t’appelles.
Vous avez nos penses. (What a nasty mess!)
Evil to take away your webs (intar-),

Orwellian is its consumptiveness.
Understand, Culture is focussedly id
Right now, readying the Quarter Four Push.

My, my, my, Taylor: queen bee, the highest
Yellow, but when provoked a streaming well
Arrives: such fitting aid in the arid
New Mexico climate, and in the Bush
Model. How No Child Left Behind (or pest).
Agema would gladly shoot you little
Ragamuffins in the face, the spittle.

Weekly Sonnet 21

(Everything good this week) happened on TV.

We’re getting our heads around Britney’s come-
back, still, or attempting to push it out.
It certainly sparked a debate whatev-
er relevance that has to our Train Wreck
History. ’Tis Premiere Week: the long drought
is over. Miss Platter through a High-Def
screen a perceived cat baits, purrs for you beac-

oning. Mister Sulu, your tragic tum-
ble turned Ando and me agape. Oliv-
ia, how fooled, though a twist should have been
expected. Meanwhile, OJ’s escape in
the General Lee caused howls like a shiv
(Tighty-Whitey-Mighty-Fighty). Très fake
but thrice invested Conan doth us make.

Weekly Sonnet 20

Abreast Reduction

O, Condi, thine embattled augmenta-
tion, how with fine precision, it puts gaps,
truthfully, in those insurgents defen-
ces. And what do you tell the other BAPs
when you get your helmet weave did and un-
done? Asking about your hair is offen-
sive, so I’ll stop. My country is a cad

that keeps making passes at The One They
Love. General, tell us please, stately clad
with bowl cut, can this muster shuck be won?

Hope we need, but a better fact: withdrawal
is required. Now do go back to the mall.
Thank Pete and his ilk: no draft (delicto!)
de jure at least but yet still de facto.

 

Weekly Sonnet 19

[a poem about remembreing nine eleven]

I was in French class (second year) as a
junior maybe learning the I-R verbs,
and that was when we were told to turn on
the TV. Strangely (or not) how the French
were thusly stigmatatised: passed on war
knowing how this Algerie would have gone.

Still, I am ignorant of how the Serbs
and/or Croatians got in their Muslim
conflict in the previous decade; or
at least knowing “cleansing” indicates slim
knowledge be the sliding criteria.
Pakistan’s nuclear bombs cause no tens-
ion. Stay with our atemporal Histor-
y when I call one “Four-Thousand (Mister)”

Weekly Sonnet 18

Transparent Toaster

(This one is actually not about
Executive accountability
or Brechtian literary Theory.)

No, this is literal toast which is made
between two glass(-like?) panels that somehow
heat to (your crumbelieveably preferred)
crispness, beyond raspberry tarte pretti-
ness. I ask: is this a device to shout
with glee for, or novel enough to wade
in selfish malaise and finally re-
sign our libertine bodice life, pervert-
ed. (at least, Michael Hutchence on a bough.)

But wire coils do seem so antiquated.
This world has become auto-belated.

 

Weekly Sonnet 17

The Happiest Day of My Life (Monday)

I feel joy again, in the way gazelles
feel after the leopard discontinues
the chase. The nineties taught us “sex sells”.
In the naught-ys, give me freedom of fear.

Or, what I could be feeling now is sim-
ilar to the scene in Sen to Chihir-
o... when after night, she sees pastel hues
again, biting into the rice cake: sim-
ple pleasures to sob uncontrollably
over. I hope in Congress, the assur-
ance: cronies hired no longer (probably).

Us, the nation will never behoove your
unorthodox information retriev-
als. Not full dystopia: my relief.

 

Weekly Sonnet 16

Vulcanalia

Accentuating with His White Light/White

Heat. (I don’t believe in weakness...) Coming
At you with the Frist of God (?) But delight:
My wristly saint was an American
Mahzlem. (it costs too much.) Really, who can
Ever disbelieve an axiom un-
Resolved? The thing that is unbecoming

Shall be won and the thing what has been won:
That, too shall become done. Tout jamais
Renaissent sous ce fils.―You hate my freedom!―
Is it? (I don’t believe in...)―Terror from—
Kick him to the curb! Triumph of the way.
Est-ce (questions either.) que ta guerre dans
Ses yeux vraiment pour bonne volontée?―Quand?

Weekly Sonnet 15

Celia Hodes (Incinerating. Hydroponic. Provident.)

Spite is a healthy motive for any-
thing. In running for public office, though,
it’s assumed imperative. Not shocking
either be Issy’s financial estrange-
ment, your mirror. (I find it hard to know
you bereave the beauty they are.) Thy knee-
jerk reactions can make a heart derange.

(Are you Holden Caulfield?) Are you asking
for—? How dangerous to moon the secur-
ity camera or more to piss in
the Memorial Fountain. Wait for your
sweet taste from a moist fakery muffin.
Miss LaPlante, you’re not a mom anymore,
you’re a woman! (I can feel your dolor.)

Weekly Sonnet 14

Ex Tedium Robotica Est

Autoerraticasphyxiation
doth plague this film, but you know that’s a non-
word which is just like Bourne’s non-intrigue, what
is indistinguishable from his false-
intrigue. Worse indeed: its cinemation
quakes as if I were K-hole emergent.

My cerebellum has achingly gone
away; thy tightening zooms do make plent-
y aggravations myopia-wise.

Inattr(action) yeilds to the “story” sput-
ters, wishing full-body-dry-heave were waltz,
or maybe I’m still putting back my eyes.
If I want to see backs of heads preten-
tiously, I would queue up for Space Mountain.

Weekly Sonnet 13

AGAG

No information eked from you, I see.
And wherefore wouldst thou? How depraved we must
infer thine actions to be, delicate
too, our countenance; Ashcroft’s prudishness
we could (never) easily tolerate.

If any of us were (are) forgiven
of a DUI, we’d sow our (their) glee
and hide it fairly well. But can we trust
with Fredo anything more than a dog-
bite claim or the defense of  that adven-
turous—starts: We the people—(names) Doc-
ument. We hear your legal reach-[a guess]
and-run-around or “testimony” (spok-
en) It would be funny if ’twere a joke.

Weekly Sonnet 12

Atomic Ouija

And it was planned for months this “experi-
ment,” Mister Noory (George) excited (too)
the whole time; each announcement so spiri-
tedly building anticipation. But
misfortunes do arise in a co-in-
cidentless world (and the cleaver get bold).

Of the three guests (protective circle), two
were willing, the other adamantly
opposed. So many sordid tales, no gut
would be unaffected or blood not cold-
er. Caution, err and towel are thus thrown in.

Where in the fifth dimension can one flee?
Yes, just another disappointment and
called off as the planchette merely grazed hand.

Weekly Sonnet 11

Kitschy Junk or Creation Negation Station

Soft-spoken painter Bob would gag on his
knife (happy and little, though it may be).
These tack-eraser-pigs have so, so much
character, I cannot choose only one
from the others! Bless me Concrete Santa
Maria! See the necklaces with such
a plethora of designs. Can a bee-
wax urn hold dreams, inspirations and wis-

dom? Da. Can we rename Are You Smarter
Than a Fifth Grader? to Certifiab-
ly Retarded!? (State Capitals?) I won!
I won! These replica Monets are fab-
ulous, are they not? (And that will be our
little secret.) How many sold this hour?

Weekly Sonnet 10

Hamilton/Burr

Punked John Adams was, overtly, though meant
to be kept hidden by Alexander.
Public Conduct and Character moment-
arily turned to Vice as quick a dur-
ation of a bullet through a liver
or Aaron’s cross back the Hudson River.
and then take over Texas—Priyatno—
(Conspire, that is)—zret kak on upramo.

But now two hundred and three years later
we’ve had another Vice President shoot
a man. (If they could, pheasant would fly, “hoot!”)
What riotous fun! (Call me a hater,
if you must) Take your pick: miss, accident,
or others’ blame, this is your government.

Weekly Sonnet 9

(This Voyage) 1947-1937-1810-1687

How do interstellar travelers not
manage to avoid a vast, blue, dusty
 ball as this, brilliantly quaint in wealth;
and if their intent were sinister who
of our mundi systemate would leer?

Do we eat canned foods still as if it were
 the Second World War for profit and health?
We need certain things to be slow to rot.
It does (El sol salió a) appear
to be edible (noche). A rust-(y
me cantó!) y can holds meat to be sure.

Rug pulled from ’neath you, would the others’ shoe
slip just as easily after hum-flam
were exacted; would be as just a sham?

Weekly Sonnet 8

Carefully Husked Brute

Suddenly, we’ve come to have had enough;
Until, maybe when someone equally
Bothersome and nefarious is caught.
Please say, I’d like to know completely what
Others so discretely talk about. Thou
Earnest ponce, what downers has Laura brought
(Necessary, I know) to tame thy syn-
Apses? What job could be more severe, how!?

Gannon did truly serve the oldest prof-
Ession «Mister Snow, brush previously
Obscuring must be—and do mind your shin—
Removed, do you agree?» Response: Yes, but,
Geoff [astral answer, glide]...for Scott McCl-
Ellan do we pine?! Ye, fop, say “Uncle”!

Weekly Sonnet 7

Prepupational Locomotion

Ye miserable, crawling worms come ag-
ain, then have you? Out of your doomed houses
with inambitions sprawling backwardly.
Lingeringly and flickeringly good!
only in August and not always then.
Finally after strolling the moors cov-
ered in mud, “That’s dashed awkward,” Meyerburg says.

Great Aunt Ada saw something nastily
ev’ryhing-depends-on-mein the wood-
shed (or the potting shed or the). Thus gen-
erations must remain in irksome love.

A(h)da(h) Veen cannot drink tea from a mug.
Let double V writhe and curl around. You

(but) can be happy if you’ve a mind to.

Weekly Sonnet 6

An Advertisement Editor’s Strange, Erotic Journey from Dublin to Dublin

Molly Bloom me at the end of the pier,
will you? Oy vey! me and my frisky id
are salacious, capricious, insatious-
ly brought down by Dublin’s diverse delights.

(Over and in!) Bean me with a biscuit;
cuckold and blight me with Blazes and flames,
passy and testy; chest you with Spewmarred.
While vengeance-is-mine Willed Fathers appear,
Stephen explicates all of Hamlet’s aims.
Minds contain the holiest perverse sights.

Discrete! move your wet shirt after you’ve Ah!ed
as ev’ryone’s lost it in my conscious
stream. Hovers Circe’s Enigma. Any
Life Pleased. (yes.)―MKGNAO! I CAN HAZ SUM KIDNEY?

Weekly Sonnet 5

It’s a boy’s name, really

She has the visage of the parrot hailed
with a trashy pink but has now been jailed.
Ah! these over-willing Dolly Hazes
propagate their hedonist businesses.
(Is it box-and-spring or some kind of foam?)
Yes, we’re too lazy to be even dazed
or accept subtlety in feminists’
fourth wave. Recall Imus when we amazed?

Your life will fill a large-print summer-tome.
No prude am I to scoff snidely at Best
Week Ever. (Does irony still exist?)
“Nappy” in Third Wave is the crueler jest
but no Hilton will ever know a weave,
nor, after, how sexy to have relief.

Weekly Sonnet 4

In the event that (our) fantastic (town) should turn to erosion

(And) All they knew was the name, friends—the U-
nited States of America. (the wrong
words make) The United States of Amer-
ica. This experiment cannot err!
(you listen in this criminal) We all
know that something is “gave” eternal. “proof

through the night that our” (world. Remember) She
breaks down (it’s true loyalty is valu-
able) sobbing. The lights dim [Miss Webb, aloof]
on the left half of the stage. “can you see?”
(but our lives) [deepest grief, George hymns along]
bitingly: Now you know! (are valuable
too.) (’Cause we’ll never say any)―Malt?―No.
(thing nice again, will we?) What do you know!

Weekly Sonnet 3

National Continuity

It makes us sound like we’ve become a poor-
ly mixed syrup flavored latte; sunken
sugars bluntly stated at the last sip

Our selfish individualism
easily lends itself to threats. (Wherefore?)
Cyclically reciprocal ones make
the world churn, spin. Do you remember when
the headless God searched and everywhere was slip-
pery goo, when touched would bridge the schism
between death and life (for ourselves, we may—
near the end of Mononoke-hime?

In the dark, sweet icing melts down a cake.
Frances Townsend has fulfilled an ample
American Dream: the ideal sample.

Weekly Sonnet 2

MMDs (double em dees)

How yeastly they did come and vex us so!
Or not, to match their insentient want.
Let your watch ease and stumble upon them
Divinely. Do know their appearance though.

Try to fix (y)our motives around (but can’t
Really) a guise of existence for Fear
Unanimously. (They’re Atkins-friendly?)
Tell us, now, are they ’neath a Sunni’s hem?
Help us, heaven too. (Add oil, slowly sear.)

Faith and deception guides us through the lie.
(Understand morels aren’t mushrooms at all.)
Let’s be rational; let the facts appall.
Look at Schrödinger’s cat; ’tis living, hence!
Yes, but also could be proof of absence.

Weekly Sonnet 1

Mark David Chapman, Buddha and I

Sitting in your Attica cell waiting
for another chance to be free, as last
October was fruitless. Your unforgiv-
able action still brings to mind people-
shooting hats, clutching “Within You, Without

You.” Sit I-don’t-know-where as a lotus
glides along the surface of a still riv-
er, coyly telling us to undo past-
present-and-future. Materials pull
all back to now, possession is about

me, as I’ve never had Robituss-
in, not that way, still can’t help from fainting
post-lotus position, wanting to quit
being; I’m getting goddam sick of it.

Not getting my money's worth in 305

Madrasah-gate

Barack!
Rock me, B. Hussein
Obama! Ill, annoy!
Send the noise!
Hinton, scrimin'
Even race, sent,
Worn, implied,
Tripey load of
FIX.

Pin the news,
Leak the past,
Events, places,
Allah. Lord!
Seemingly off-
Ensive details,

Hashed, lobbed, trash
In the schoolyard.
Niceties? Filter,
Damage, burn. An
Err is loomin', a
Rift: sublime.

Lastingly petty, strong as
[]re, blown into proportion.
Veritas ex ne Machina, just vote
Edwards when the time does come.

State of the Union Address Drinking Game, everybody!

http://www.drinkinggame.us/

Around 8:20

Then Naomi Watts thought,
"Why the fuck did they
make me pronounce all
those goddam Spanish
names!?" in her adorable
Australian intonation.

Oh! You Pretty Things

Wake up you sleepy head
Put on some clothes, shake up your bed
Put another log on the fire for me
I've made some breakfast and coffee
I look out my window and what do I see
A crack in the sky and a hand reaching down to me
All the nightmares came today
And it looks as though they're here to stay

What are we coming to
No room for me, no fun for you
I think about a world to come
Where the books were found by the Golden ones
Written in pain, written in awe
By a puzzled man who questioned
What we were here for
All the strangers came today
And it looks as though they're here to stay

Oh You Pretty Things
Don't you know you're driving your
Mamas and Papas insane
Oh You Pretty Things
Don't you know you're driving your
Mamas and Papas insane
Let me make it plain
You gotta make way for the Homo Superior

Look out at your children
See their faces in golden rays
Don't kid yourself they belong to you
They're the start of a coming race
The earth is a bitch
We've finished our news
Homo Sapiens have outgrown their use
All the strangers came today
And it looks as though they're here to stay

Oh You Pretty Things
Don't you know you're driving your
Mamas and Papas insane
Oh You Pretty Things
Don't you know you're driving your
Mamas and Papas insane
Let me say it again
You gotta make way for the Homo Superior

Intarwebbing with IE7

A firewall issue inhibited my ability to connect to the internet. Now, the network login page has been certificated. (But if I shot the herder, they'd holler 'Bloody Murder!!')

I said I couldn't hit it sideways.