Free form w/ a questionable outlet

"I was against life, on principle. What principle? The principle of futility." - H. Miller

Currently, I would much rather be writing fiction than redundant poems about dead ends & barren landscapes. A One Night Stand, my story in the works, is at a standstill & has been for a period of time I dare not clock.
This isn't what is referred to as a rut, no, it's the slow percolation of information & events. Until finally the well is full once again, only to be used up & expelled through the process of creativity. Even piss in a rag can be used as an effective tool under certain circumstances. It's never as good as the real thing though, & I don't know where I stand in poetry anymore. Naturally it makes sense to dig up the old work like a corpse & examine the remains down to strands of DNA. Break it all apart, see how it functioned in the first place. That's the old jazz though & I innately recall the infrastructure of those tunes. Now is now & then was then.
It's time to cut the ground around me to find poetry, all over again, while the feeling of futility is a thick outer crust.
Basically, I feel lost, & I'm attempting to find myself through poetry again.
Doesn't seem as if there's anything left though. A dry, fruitless struggle w/ mixed aspirations & a floating point which bobs & weaves, but never becomes tangible. Too, just giving up isn't an option.

I'm sitting in a dirty corner w/ a real gun murdering tin cans w/ fake bullets.