The open wound

Living through the open wound

is like nurturing

the elephant in the room.

Scale and perspective

seem like odd bedfellows now.

Sharing it all as topic feels toxic.

Schemes and strategies to deal

with all of this

seem sloppy and inept.

Festering and weeping

and distraught

invite themselves right in.

The construction

of a story to tell,

to satisfy others’

need to know,

lacks basic telling composition.

Others’ questions

don’t encompass.

Their solutions

only add to the mix.

Some part of you

is always on watch,

sharing apprehensions

with another part of you

always on guard.

The whole truth,

for its lack

of clear substance

and apparent sketchy evidence,

can hardly be coherently shared

without a sip of it

in their mouth,

a taste of it

in their mind,

and a swallow

to feed or starve their heart.

To befriend is to wade through

the repulsive.

To begin to understand

is to stand in the current wind,

silent fury and acidic rain.

To offer an umbrella of sorts

is to assume a logic

that does not apply.

For gravity is not gravity

in this case,

as life going forward.

These are

emotionally nibbling sharks

under dark waters

that are bacterial

rather than looming and large.

It’s all nano in size

coming from afar,

all captivating

without being positively current,

all comprehensive

without a logic to report,

all vital misery,

active and embracing,

bent of giving privacy

a new dimensional gaze,

all invisibly tethered

somehow together

yet oozing and brimming

and blithering

with overwhelm and freefall.

An evasive center-point

has yet to commit.

It is a contagion

without defined outer limits.

Anything newly touched

is somehow now mucked up.

It is a lava flow

from a land of yourself,

not worthy or ready

and certainly not realized

to be it.

Life was really grand

when reality was living

the crust of it!

But living the wound?

It is a cesspool

of self-seen indulgently,

possibly myopically

but not yet essentially.

This is not hurt.

For hurt is an outcome,

a bleacher terms

for after the fact.

This is animated pathos.

You swim it,

you swallow in it,

and it floats your boat

of resistance to it.

You need a publicist or agent

to interface with anyone else

over it.

There is no front line

of effort or attention.

It of itself has no front.

It can become holographic

in grief or sorrow

with the slightest

emotional in-breath.

It can be a hell-gate falling

forward on you,

yet without physical weight

or displayable evidence.

Oh where are wound whisperers

when in need?

The ponder never sleeps.

And the answers never come

secured and signed for.

This open wound life

is a phantom appendage.

You can have behavior with it

that is only real for you.

There is no wardrobe

to stylize that look.

You become the imposture

to be you,

to buy what you believe

time would offer,

to counterfeit circumstance

to provide for need,

to employ the heavens

for feedback in resolve,

to become the action of the spirit

in this, a fire dance,

to feel for where as source

this projection got its grip.

And how did you

send yourself there and back

without current knowledge

of yourself involved?

Therefore it’s gone postal,

within your own

personalized delivery system.

This is all an intimacy

based on liquidity!

Viscous is vicious,

damp is damnation,

flood is float,

and rain is the hysterical truth.

This wound lives as you

until you find the spirit of you

behind the OZ as ooze.

You stream the light,

no matter its medium

of gravity and sorrow

until that light source is embraced

and then gratefully

your dance is every output

from its fiendish blather

to its brutal blinding.

All of it to glitter back into soul.

All the content maybe then

becomes a wash.

But the method

of this madness,

this all becomes

your sacred means.

Open wound has its own

form of mastery.

It does not lead to a wisdom

but more a presence.

It does not live by solutions

but in a sacred suspended liquidity.

Nothing is hard and fast

or factoid bound.

The phantom appendage

now gives auric vitality

to whole being hum.

No measure of time

is in this recipe pronounced.

It is when,

it is all said and done.

It is an unrealized metamorphosis

without truncation or dismissal.

It is ongoing

as emotional stem cell research

in the first person applied.

If you get it,

you can only give it off

as a field-share.

Everyone has to grow their own

to start.

You have to find

the alchemist within,

have the heart field

to be the genius

that solves and resolves

and absolves the you of it

until you are small no more,

you are always with sky

in your face,

and trance and transformation

in your parted lips smile.

That anything built or brought

to further contain you,

only allows you to release

as doves

from their cage confinements,

snakes from their old skins,

beaver from the need to chew,

tuna from the forever swim,

and humans

from their experience addictions.

Such is the value

and eventual worth

of life,

your life,

at the open wound.