dear lucky mess

is it spending the day downriver that rises nerve endings to the skin's surface? is it spending just a few hours in that house, the house i spent most of my youth's years, the house that i now will visit only near-involuntarily, near-dragged, near-begged, near-bribed. is it coming home to a full inbox, is it in reading the calmness of last year's entries, is it in the early-morning contacts? is it the dichotomy of both unwanted beckoning and unwanted rejection? what about the anatomy of relapse? what about that? is it downriver, is it that house that makes me to want to fling all the faxes around the room, hurl the pencil cup straight into the kitchen, spray cds like ninja-star-frisbees at the living room blinds? and if i wasn't so goddamn distracted, what if i wasn't just waiting, what would i throw then?