stuck. runs dry tonight. words, fucking words collide and stumble out. stuck. in a house in a family in a state in a state of being alone in a hole in a ditch in canada. wish i was in canada. wish i was not... all i wanted to do, even now, but it doesnt work, is get it out. cant grow without catharsis, cant go on thinking and clearheaded without purging the slate... sometimes. sometimes, god, to be pure and right i cant even say the name. cant even think the word. violent daydreams. attacking players spitting. and i, in my own time, cant get it out. cut off irresponsible. i cant... deal with that. so i let go, dammit, i have to to good things, shudder and brace and rock solid adrenaline rush no violence, ignorance. ah dammit, rise and all i can do, all i can think to do is close the door, hard, with a tension, turn off the lights television and all. step back in though i dont want to it ruins the entire tense thing ive created to grab a book and again tensely... theres nowhere in this house i want to be. parents room busy loud bright dad and mom on vacuum and... this was it. what i was going to do - reversed. wander upstairs and brush mom and try and be invisible. try and let nobody see that im wandering aimlessly to the attic. that door never could seal right, suction everytime, crack of paint bonding every time. acts like it gets wet. same old creaky stairs no invisibility but nobody to bother me. rearrange the beanbags stacked between the table and the chair and no tv. god - with the same playlist and book doubled in distance and subtle fan i cant hear. i can hear all noises around through my body but not the fan. just the little breeze through hair. thinking death isnt ever far away. my feet are dead left finger on and off the two on and off again and again shifting. everytime brought back to life magically. its close. heartbreaking painful melodies that i have to close my eyes to see. and after... god knows when... finally close and shut off and stand up. heels of both feet flat from the cabinet. dead, the half of me and coming back with cool rush of blood - cool not hot - and cactus carpet. downstairs to the same situation i left but with more lights. back to someplace... i just dont want to be. fucking name. delegated to the kitchen i can force a smile because stupidity was is and always will be funny. till nine. my time again but still no, damned irresponsibility, fucked title. i cant even say. delegated to the only place i havent tried, the basement. but i grab a guitar, figuring to burn time down slowly at least where no one can see me break my heart. and i do, myself, alone, half in the earth... heated at least. twice then moved on to other things - capo not required. bored cokes gone and drymouthed cheese crackers and football and old magazine. dammit what to do but check the time and see none has passed. not nearly in time with reality. the eastern time zone is late. but after a time passes again and again and to nearly half time... i can try and see again. pack away the guitar - which i only now realize is a classical and dont like it as much, cant believe i have been playing a classical and never noticed - trudge to the door silently, not even allowing for the quiet deep reverberating non-chord it makes when the case is loose, pop the door open. noisy door and backtrack to turn off more lights. turning off lights is my specialty. upstairs and... its my time. but fucking biologicalness is... this isnt right. brewing hatred strong and clear and not fuzzbrained or scattered but focused. jesus, why? no, not in the kitchen wont work. walk in and close the door because open doorways are two way streets. opens back up. not to start a confrontation. lay down behind the table head on floor and mute the tv. that will show... damn well better show. sprawled in the shadows read the lips of the washed up pretty actress. speaks of some childrens project. chris berman yacks. replays show the right arm between the ball and the ground. no challenges allowed... doesnt matter. i lay there counting minutes. no, not counting minutes. looping sad verses with shattering painful choruses over and over. eyes closed and open staring and blank. time... stiff neck. hearing things. keys, groaning from upstairs, cat above my head sick sucking spitting burbling bubbling hissing sounds. just cleaning herself i tell me. its all natch. and dark... but for the light of the next room. i resent it so. finally its gone and i without reply stare reading the lips of those tired chris bermans until it is over.