CALAMITY

we string and are strung. the [     ] of the story depends on [        ]. i’ve lost some of the mattering of symbols. but i pull back, back into the hallway of brokenness. i see it threefold: window, bone, foot. i saw [  ] at church, once. there had to be more, but the formative [   ] strings and is strung. and [  ] still there. and the guilt of provocation.

 

the rooms i inherited:

1. away from the colors of [       ] and [      ]; own tv humming into the night, ringing in the new year; the club formed for [    ] only, and i left the room; can’t even remember the set-up –

2. years after; was even bigger but covered [       ]; the loneliness of an abandoned [    ]; more colors forgotten; but the sunburn remains, something we had in common –

3. the space of now-and-then; everyone else who has slept here; and it never feels less [     ].

 

stubborn streaks burn halos into [   ] palms as [  ] string and [   ] strung. the history of fuck tied to [   ]st and [   ]er. i wonder about the use of [   ]. what it offers. what it does. simply noticing the bridge between, covered in [     ]. these shards are not stained window. they are not kaleidoscope lens. they are shards.

i fail to string and am strung.