STATUS: writer's block

i've tried everything:

____- sitting in dimly lit cafes for in excess of 3 hours

____- all the usual songs that inspire me

____- reading

____- the brutal memory of history

(and still the last 10 pages of my notebook have big fat crosses through them). Sure, there were some hopeful moments:

____- the truth is, home is a variable concept: sometimes person, sometimes object, and sometimes, as Martha put it: there's just no where to go home to.

____- And your eyes you say are greenest when you cry.

_____I walked along a beach once, found various rocks,

_______dipped them in the water and hoped to see 

_______you looking back at me. 

____- i wear cities like t-shirts

____- NOTAPOEM (HOMECOMINGOING PRAYER)

Familiar or not, I see gravestones with my name on them- to come or I'm already in I can't tell, I see shadows that dream their own dream and hum their own lullabies and I get scared if this town's a place I've already died in, or that's dead to me, or if we're dancing towards it now. 

____And her fingernails grow across the river, and I eat a meal without glancing at the menu for the first time in years: bowl of weeds, powdered minerals, and a glass of liquid- reflective as a mirror so I drink my head back into myself and see with double-vision till I urinate later. 

____And familiar heads smile at me and expect me to grow roots, and once gone always gone I say, and wait for my jet-lag (still a ghost of another time zone) to rescue me into a sleep I should already be in- sleeping on the floor in another gravitational field where up is still a half-unrealistic possibility amongst all the other non-possibilities. 

But the truth is... i've got nothing. 

We'll all just have to wait till it comes back. 

Until then... i have alot in me i can't seem to exhale.