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.