For lack of a better title

Today marks the beginning of Summer '08 Writing Project. In the interest of spurring myself onward I've set myself a few personal goals. Then, in the midst of reflection (some people call it self-berating) I realised how often I lapse on personal goals of all shapes and sizes. So.
I'm making this writing project (semi) open to public scrutiny. It's my goal, over the summer to do the following:
Weekly: one new poem, having undergone at least one revision session. I may take notes or chicken scratchings I've previously done and develop them or I may come up with something new.
I'll be posting the new poems weekly when they've been completed, each Friday or Saturday, along with how many revisions it took, what music I was listening to (if any) what authors I'd been just reading or purposefully aping and any personal notes on the piece.
Occasionally I'll post pieces in various states of completion.

Monthly: Three short stories a month in June, July and August. September I'll use to edit, sort out and lengthen the pieces I want to use for my dissertation. I'll probably not post the short stories here, though I may post synopses, clips or writing notes.

The purpose of this is to formally structure my writing time and to ensure that I'm actually producing content throughout the summer. Part of it's also to keep me in writing poetry-- I like poetry, even if I'm (officially) better at other things.

This blog will still host more typical blog or picture entries, but for the summer it will be largely devoted to "_____kickass title here_____" project. Some of the pieces I'm most happy about I'll post in my poetry myspace blog or maybe even my livejournal.

here's today's poem, unedited so far. On friday you'll see a finished version.

Pieces, directing energy( 6/1/08. poem project #1. music: pickwick.)

the papers, in their cluttered mass
clasp to my ankle and keep me dragging my feet
sometimes I have to walk long enough
away to drink or drag it on out
wake up happy to be
waking up. the pounding voice in
the back of my head saying
“this is the rest of your life right now.”
but it’s hard to re-direct the energy.
to put the pieces in files; instinct
and cliché say writers don’t have to do
that, can keep going on nothing but
heartache and a universal contempt
for formality and normality, embracing
the ankle shackles that famously drag people
off the edges of bridges or into stark, silent
twilights, while people wonder where the
brilliance went, or if it’s all just the way that writers fool us.
So. I’m trying to put things in their place without turning into
an accountant. to take the days and keep them from turning
to waste. upbraid clichés with action.
Let my fingers become a funnel for my mind
avoid high places and sharp objects.