goin to a fire to fry

i love mr. cobain's voice on the unplugged album. it cuts thru me the way i've seen the terrible tenor of (tremulous) pavoroti cast tears upon my mother's face. the latter makes me laugh sardonic, the former i would replace with 10 others' lives, including my own.
there's nothing within to hold me together these days. hockey is too removed from this rurality where it rarely freezes and "lumber" & "composite" mean something completely different. the satellite isn't installed yet, i could do it myself, really. and should, considering my sanity.
or lack thereof.
there was spider shit on my desk today. i had left them, in the tip top of the attic, so they would take care of the flies & to keep karma on this side of shitty. I did not count on spider leavings, for i'm sure it's not just polka dotted poop, it's also tiny drops of victims.
i know, i do it's nature.
and so is my ability to discern it as shitty.
as has been my attitude.

"yer livin' on box wine"

why call an intervention when there's nothing left to intervene?

i don't tell em about how i'd like to snap those wrist arteries, how i wonder bout the tension. how much pressure, how much pullin. and what kind of tearin to get to them?

i'd like to see lava this weekend.

i'd like to have my music come with me.

i'd like to know only strangers.