BTRIPP (btripp) wrote,

same shit ... different day, eh?

OK ... looks like I'm going to have 20 poems done in February ... considering that's a "short month", that means that I was able to ratchet up to my old 21/month level without suffering too much! I am, however, going to be targeting a 17/month level (for a yearly 200 total) rather than the higher, since I have no way of judging how going back to school (let alone going on these anti-anxiety drugs) will impact my ability to get poems done. This month, however, will average out with January to get me set for making this target. Like anybody cared about that stuff. It certainly is easier doing the "e-editing" on these as I write them then going back through the archives. While "knocking down a month" in the archives only takes 2-3 hours, it's 2-3 hours of pretty mindless repetitive HTML coding, which has shown a remarkable ability of putting me right off to sleep. I'm hoping to get this "palmtop" thing up and running one of these days and use that to "code on the go", since I could be waiting for the bus and get a chunk of files done!

Anyway ... here's one from yesterday. I'm still feeling a bit beat up by the Effexor's effects ... but was able to crawl back to the keyboard last night to throw this one together. As always, the big pile o'poems is at ...

                    EVIL PLACES MADE

                    wrung through
                    dark spaces,
                    dragged into
                    harsh zones;
                    we face an obliteration,
                    standing at the abyss
                    wondering what
                    can possibly survive

                    the connection
                    is not there,
                    we can not reach
                    across the dark,
                    we run in circles
                    pent by new walls
                    now claustrophobic
                    within our skin

                    too much change,
                    too little control;
                    we are on rafts
                    in endless seas
                    beset by storms,
                    poisoned and tossed,
                    unable to steer,
                    unable to locate

                    these functions collapse,
                    time-lines crumple;
                    there are no hours
                    which remain to act,
                    there are no structures
                    able to complete
                    intentions made
                    in different worlds

                    so many fears,
                    terror is the texture,
                    the fiber of this place,
                    every corner,
                    every nook,
                    every shadow harbors dread
                    and we are now defenseless
                    against those wicked blades

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp

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