BTRIPP (btripp) wrote,
BTRIPP
btripp

How did it get to be Friday already?

What a fucked-up week. I have had a stack of things that I've been trying to get out all week and nothing has gotten done on that since Monday. I spent pretty much all day on Wednesday dealing with my Mom's stuff, and then all day yesterday (ALL day), dealing first with Daughter #2, then both girls, and my Mom. Can't get any work done if I'm not at my desk ... a fact that seems to slip past The Wife, who (of course) rags my ass about "why isn't THIS done?" "why isn't THAT done?" in nearly the same breath as she's "assigning" whole days out of my available schedule. Grrrrrrrrrrrr. Not happy. Not happy. Not happy.

Anyway ... another poem up. At least I've been able to sneak in some writing here and there (and some work on the Poem site ... though I'm still waiting the disk from AT&T to get the new dial-up thing going and get the site up there). As far as the Poem site goes, it looks like I'll have pretty much 1998-2001 ready to roll when that's up ... I've been trying to "piece together" what actually got written during my "hiatus", which looks like a bit of a train wreck (I went from my clockwork 21-poems-a-month into writing "whenever if ever" and having a full year ... 08/02/99 - 08/08/00 ... with zero output). The stuff from 1998 is "messier" since it starts off in my old format of PFS:Write poems on disk (waiting to be re-formatted into text files), and into the "scraps of paper" mode of 1999 and 2000. Ah, but nobody gives a flying fuck about this ... why do I bother writing about it?


                    TWO OF SIX YET NEARLY THERE


                    and so these taunt us
                    the basic form
                    of the deepest dreams
                    when found arising
                    set with paper
                    and electronic ink
                    still always shifted
                    away from our release

                    the framing hits
                    grab at the eye
                    to search amid
                    with primal gut awaiting
                    the fight or flight
                    or sudden fall
                    or final break
                    into our prayers

                    yet nothing else
                    will bridge that state
                    all inner marks
                    are just off target
                    fully half
                    rotated one
                    as by cruel hands
                    intent on torture

                    and at the last
                    the furthest miss
                    goes dimes to quarters
                    in exchange
                    as if a dream
                    sought to inform
                    but blurred our eyes
                    to incorrectness

                    yet here we have
                    not our inscribing
                    a thing of chance
                    held to its grid
                    how bitter this
                    how strangely mocking
                    to be so close
                    with nothing there



                             - Brendan Tripp
                                07/19/2001

                    Copyright © 2001 by Brendan Tripp
 
 



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