Ode to a Civil War

Cue the Gregorian chants
And the twelve year old boy soprano
"Don't let the eyes of sadness
Reflect on your inner soul."

Ironman killed Captain America.
No, not directly,
No, he didn't pull the trigger
Tony Stark did not shoot the Cap
But he killed Captain America
through orders or bribes or covert forces
S.H.E.I.L.D could not put up with
Captain America's dissidence during.
The fiasco, the fascism,
The superhuman registration act
Legislating the safety of friends and relatives and loved ones
in the name of public safety,
like so many patriot acts,
or mutant registration projects.

What would DC say?
What would Superman and Batman
and even Lois Lane say?
Would they fight with Captain America?
Would they fight with Iron Man?
Would they stand on the sidelines
Like the X-Men?
Would Superman stay on the side of Justice and law?
Would Batman go rouge?
Would Lois Lane see the whole thing,
as just another "big scoop?"

Oh Civil War
Oh Speedball or Penance
or whatever the hell you call yourself now.
Oh, divider of friends, comrades, families, and spouses.
Mr Fantastic, Sue Storm,
Where are your children?
After the rumble,
Will you pick each other up
And drive to the sitters
Or maybe have a romantic dinner,
and perhaps the best make-up sex ever?
Or is Reed sleeping on the couch tonight?

If the twitters and facebooks
and youtubes and diggs and even myspaces
flow out of the series of tubes,
would they be flushed away,
forever lost?

If the internets is indeed
a series of tubes
if the backbone breaks,
and data leaks out
like sewage from a drainage pipe.

If we loose our data, or is it datum
and our ability to play WOW
and our ability to watch The Guild

If we can't access corporate email,
your boss wants you to work late
free cookies in the kitchen
time for us to "tighten our belts."

and craigslist postings,
help wanted
Bike for sale
M4MFF

If all our data (or is it datum?),
flowed from the tube
into the real world,
into the ground, the Earth
would it contaminate our drinking water?

Of Zombies and Sarah Palin

Run run, run to Alaska!
The zombie apocalypse is here! Jump in your warthog before sarg uses you as a human shield! Hurry, before it’s too late! The zombies want Brians! Bri----ans.

Run, Run, Run to Alaska!
Will the freeways be a tasty bottleneck? Will you make it through Canada before they close the borders? And will the cold keep the zombies away? Will their zero body heat trump their desire for your testy flesh? And brains?

Run Run, Run to Alaska!
You’re almost there! Don’t stop, don’t stop! Double tap but don’t stop. Don’t stop.

Run Run, Run to Alaska!
There’s Sarah Palin sitting on her front porch. She invites you in. Something feels wrong, but how can you resist the chance to see Russia from her kitchen window?

Moooooaning. Moooooooaning.
Palin’s a zombie! Palin’s a zombie!
Palin’s a gun toting, right winged, carnivorous zombie!
Well, I guess its not all bad. Her IQ just shot up 20 points.

Moaoooning, Mooooooaning
Palin aims her rifle,
“You betcha!” She shrieks, “You betcha!”
Pit bull with lipstick grin and a shot gun at your head.

BLAM!
Oh, what providence
Oh, what Deus Ex Machina!
Cheney’s been hunting quail again!
Palin’s zombified head dangles
The would be VP slain by the former VP.
And I live to survive the undead.
But the zombies, they’re in Alaska!

Run Run, Run to Siberia
Run Run, Run to Mt Everest
Run Run, Run to Antartica!

Every OS Sucks!

Spinning wheels, rotating hour glasses
Are you both the work of demons?
Are you both Satan's pride?
You sit there and mock me
My deadline draws closer and closer,
And yet, there you are,
Still spinning, still rotating,

Still it makes me wonder if you,
if your OS,
is sentient,
and why you feel the need
to make me wait.
Do I not spend enough time with you?
Impossible!
I spend most of my waking hours with you,
or at least one of your kind.
But maybe that's it,
maybe you're jealous.
You sync with my blackberry,
you know its thoughts
you know how much time
I spend with her.

Or maybe when you spin or rotate,
whatever the case may be,
maybe you're in a contest
The ultimate Mac vs PC
Who can stay busy longer?
Who can kill more time?
Who can be the least productive?
Jobs and Gates probably put you up to the task
As they sip wine together, secretly
laughing at us all,
You little peons, we control your lives!
We control your livelihood, your entertainment
We control your IV drip of information!

But whatever reason you spin or rotate,
it always ends in a crash. In an hour's work lost,
It always ends with nothing.
Just a black screen.

Spam

Spam.
When I was a kid you were nothing more than a yummy meat. You and I met for breakfast a couple times a week.

Spam.
In my teens, in the early 90s, you gained more meaning: you were not just a meat, you were a slang term, but not as we know you now. No, you were a rental cop – a mall security guard, a library bouncer. You did not carry a gun, like real cops. You were fake ham, not quite a pig.

Spam.
Lovely spam, wonderful spam. Even now, I still wonder if half a bee must ipso facto half not be. And if one's mother really does smell of elder berries. But back in the mid 90s, I found you in music. A British choral arrangement sang your praises.

Spam.
The late 90s came, and you became my bane. You became a flood of useless information, advertisements. Oh the inches you promise, oh the wonders. How many Nigerian princes can there possibly be? How much of their fortune can they really afford to part with? How many Granny Transsexuals "riding" horses can one actually view before one goes blind?

Spam.
I still eat you as meat, if one can consider yourself meat. I still fry you with eggs and even eat you raw. I don't like pork, but I do like you. But I tell you this, dear spam, if you don't get away from my in box, I may storm the gates of Hormel and burn your factories down.

Testing. Tap tap tap.