It is exquisite torture to succumb
To the desire to rest upon the bed
While finding heavy eyelids bothersome,
As lower droops the hebetudinous head.
But even as the lids rejoice to meet,
The brain cries out that tasks remain undone,
Thus jerking you awake – “Did I complete
A sonnet? No? May I post a re-run?”
But no, I grit my teeth and soldier on
Despite the fact my memory’s a sieve,
And my ideas die before they spawn
A single thing resembling narrative.
But when it’s done my mind and body race
To be the first to Morpheus’s embrace.
The circus now has ended, go in peace-
And wait for the inevitable clash
Of life and weariness without surcease
Colloquially known as post-con crash.
How can we fail to mourn collective glee
As for the year it goes into remission,
And fades into the sort of memory
That causes melancholic disposition.
Postponing crash was all that I could do-
By means of sleep and robust exercise.
Of course it’s not a thing I can eschew
No matter how I’d wish it otherwise.
Alas, we all must pay this bitter price
For having tasted part of paradise.
We are the sum of our experiences,
So having been a lifeguard in my youth
I’m good at seeing past appearances,
Especially when they contradict the truth.
So if a lazy parent thinks state law
Does not apply to him or to his brood,
For liability cares not a straw,
And to the pool attendant is quite rude,
When he claims they’re lap swimming- clearly guff-
And thinks his word excuses the offenders,
I do not hesitate to call his bluff
And have those kids swim laps ’til they surrender.
Transgression loses charm when it’s not fun.
Jerk: 0, Former-Lifeguard Libby: 1.
Four days of fangirl fun at Comic-Con
Will naturally result in lovely things,
From exercising nerdish lexicon
To being filled with awe by costuming.
But in addition to these lovely sights,
And entertaining panels rife with dish,
My own ambitions could not but take flight
In ways that I had never thought to wish.
The concentration of professionals
In industries I hope to penetrate
Outlined how to avert the obstacles,
And list the steps I might concatenate.
Such joy to find an unexpected map
Where waking life and daydream overlap.
Our band contained nine stooges in three rings,
Which was a challenge to coordinate,
Until a new ringmaster had us sing
From music, thus reducing them to eight.
Three more were lost when we changed our PA
To pick up only voices and guitars,
One fled when sets were not in disarray,
Woodshedding charts made two give au revoirs.
Which means that set-up doesn’t taken an hour,
And pieces can improve from week to week,
Mic’ed saxophones no longer overpower,
And set lists are no longer so oblique.
Thus, our stooge count has dwindled down to one,
At least until I say that I am done.
Sometimes a perfect day is full of stress,
Fatigue and aches, chagrin and too-few meals,
And traffic jams that snare the streets downtown,
Adrenalin makes weariness surreal,
To see two strangers see and greet each other,
With shibboleths that makes the other smile,
And then, embracing, call each other brother-
Moments like this delight as they beguile.
For when unlikely things become the norm,
Preposterous becomes a possibility.
Facilitated frolics can transform
A person suffering from invisibility.
To be amidst a crowd of introverts
Can be pleasure, even when it hurts.
A day spent in the company of friends,
Both those of old and those you’ve now just met,
Upon which everyone overextends
Their energies but cannot be upset-
For each day’s crammed with more than one can see
And interstitial loveliness abounds;
Combined nostalgia, wit, and novelty-
Reflected thus in others, it astounds.
Just as it’s said that one can’t simply walk
Into Mordor, nor into Ballroom 20,
It’s difficult to paraphrase a talk,
When overwhelmed by the delights of plenty.
Our hearts and TARDISes do coincide,
As they’re both bigger when you look inside.
Three hours of keeping watch and five at play,
Analysis, professional enrichment,
Is not an awful way to spend the day,
Despite a slight but lingering disappointment.
It’s not that there aren’t costumes by the score
That have been built with cleverness and care-
It’s not that there aren’t awesome panels, for
The guests are frequently beyond compare.
This problem is a first-world one at best;
These hypotheticals for choice events:
Will TV panels help keep me abreast?
Will academic panels be too tense?
Like Plato’s cave, Hall H contains a show
Of gorgeous shadows we can never know.
This week will be a week of little sleep,
A week of mad activity and joys
Too numerous to count, which I may keep
For days when all the universe annoys.
This too shall be the week of fervent hope
That few things will adhere to my projections-
With predetermined chaos I will cope,
For tumult and disorder are perfection;
Such gifts of chance are thus to us delivered,
Embraced by those both fortunate and wise.
A plan is but an arrow in a quiver;
Its flight may both enrapture and surprise.
Sweet Pandemonium, your aim is true,
Projectile flight’s adventure to pursue.
Three-night, while walking dogs, my lover spoke
Eleven-derly, he pontific-nine-d
Upon our dachshund, and he made two jokes
That left me laughing and exhilar-nine-d.
And as with b’nine-ted breath my darling w’nine-d,
I offered him whiskered, wee ca-ten.
Three do so as he pleased; we both confl-nine-ed
Our mirth with wit which spurns the asi-ten.
Our kiss beneath one-and-a-quarter moon
Was promise and seduction all at twice.
And so we seized two moments opportune
And had two interludes that were quite nice.
Such two-derful delights within his arms!
I shall commemor-nine his many charms.
Inspiration: Victor Borge’s inflationary language