The universe is a trauma. The greatest ever made. Very wound of very wound, expanding not staid. Sizzling emptiness between the blazing suns. Too much nothing there. All that distance between what we don’t know and what we can’t imagine.
My little trauma, a shard so small, not even my ego can talk about it.
Humans. Only remaining member in tribe hominin. Dogged by our past, addicted to hope, we scramble about, hurting each other. Apologize and make up. Try to do better. Not all of us, but enough.
You may want to fix the universe. Cosmic surgeon or therapist. But try and you stagger at the size. Swagged needles, wont even point in the right direction.
This wound is almost all womb, placenta of strange things.
Sometimes I’m a poet eating chaos, sometimes a photographers capturing blood stains. Others gaze on this caldera, and out spill similes, analogies, metaphors and baby names. A groper trying to swallow a planet.
But really we are just tourists; made of the places we visit. Always wondering, “Am I home?”