Well, the 2-year-old had this last Friday and had to come home from school and was not particularly happy over the weekend, and on Wendesday night the 6-year-old started to complain ... and was sick on Thursday morning, which is when *I* started to get the symptoms ... of this lovely stomach flu. I did manage to go to class both yesterday and today, although I did miss bits of yesterday (I was in pretty bad shape), having to bolt out of the classroom at one point when it appeared that I was about to blow chow ... I never quite made it to the bathroom, as I managed to PASS OUT in the hallway, and wake up on the floor of the reception area having only slighly soiled the plastic bag that I'd grabbed from my briefcase (being the resourceful lad that I am) into which I had intended to direct any pre-bathroom barf. I don't think I was out for very long (although I felt like I was waking up from a real solid sleep when I came to ... totally disoriented) since I managed to sit up and stuff like that before anybody noticed me there. Now, if you think THAT was over-share ... just be glad I'm sparing you the details of last night! Anyway, I was not particularly comfortable in class today (class runs from 8am till 1pm and about 10am I was wondering what I was thinking being there instead of being in bed), I did manage to get through. I still need to go re-claim the 6-year-old from her grandmother's place (she probably could have gone to kindergarten today, but her mom decided not to push the issue), but it looks like we all survived.
Anyway, this stuff obviously crept into the poem here ... a few of my recent poems have been started on one day and completed later ... so sometimes the themes morph a bit mid-stream. Oh, well ... what do you want for FREE? Speaking of which, more free morbidity can be found off at http://i.am/btripp ... but you knew that!
optimal formation never arrives, always skittered, stuck on edges, spinning, powerless, without direction, without control, all empty action
no believing, all deceit, every promise harbors hooks, every lure, a scented trap; nothing honest, nothing real
surface skidding, trap door drops, no vector builds in fun-house mirrors, no frame attains to plot the grids providing guidance, the means to plan
creeping illness defines the space; we can not be, we can not go, we must drift between, unable to align, distant, not part of, an absence, unfree
nausea grips, each step betrays, stumbling, hollow, unsubtly set; awaiting the vultures to pluck out our eyes, and maggots to strip our bones into white