TEA TIME in L.A.

SONNETIZING BtVS EPISODE #8 "ME ROBOT, YOU JANE"

SONNETIZING BtVS EPISODE #8 "ME 
                              ROBOT, YOU JANE"

BOOK BAD, CHAT 
                              BAD, NEW BAD, MY BAD
rhetorical 
                              verse in Shakespearean sonnet 
                              form

[CONTINUED FROM PART 
                              1]


(3) NEW 
                              BAD

MS. CALENDAR TELLS GILES that he's 
                              a "snob."

whose vision's blocked by ancient 
                              piles of texts;

who thinks that letting 
                              words fly free will rob

them of all 
                              sanctity; that modern sects . . .


. . . 
                              condemn themselves to chaos when lines 
                              float

untethered from a solid hand-held 
                              form.

Ms. Calendar tells Giles he's missed 
                              the boat:

RIGHT "HERE," "a new 
                              society" is born.


The storyline 
                              does not reflect that hope.

This 
                              Buffy episode required a face

that 
                              could be slapped decisively. Like 
                              soap

needs dirt, the Scooby gang needs to 
                              erase . . .


. . . an EVIL packaged 
                              neatly in a box.

BUT HERE, we smile: 
                              The Bronze that evil mocks. 


(4) 
                              MY BAD

If OPTIMISM TRIUMPHS, THERE'S 
                              NO DARK:

No place for Spike or Dru. No 
                              pointy stake.

But still I feel this episode 
                              could park

itself in Joss's waste can. Hold 
                              a wake . . .


. . . for well-made turns 
                              of phrase, but let it go

where heavy footed 
                              logic cools its heels . . .

where clouded 
                              propaganda drops its snow . . .

until THE 
                              END, when all the Seven Seals . . .


. . 
                              . have ended all the dumb ideas of man.

I'm 
                              on a roll now, please, just let me spin.

I 
                              promise this will end within the span

of 
                              this last sonnet, though I may not win . . 
                              .


. . . you over to a single point I've 
                              made.

In any case . . . four sonnets on 
                              parade.<g>

TeaTimeSunday
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