The burrowing of sorrow. The burrowing of feet into a blanket on the couch designed around the Television. The living room. If you could scream. If you were both on the couch and the TV. Carpeted floors. Flat screen TV. Darkness out the window. If you were screaming at yourself. Holes in the blanket from where your dog had begun teething. And your mouth agape as the whole of your being begs to move mountains. The dim light from a lamp that feels like you could hold onto the metaphor of light. As you are screaming at the screamer on TV. Watching yourself watch the same metaphor echo in books on the coffee table. Ben Lerner wasn’t the first person to look at himself looking himself and neither was Thomas Pynchon. But they were both screaming at themselves at home on the couch and TV. And I was screaming. I was screaming for someone to move a fucking mountain. Who can afford to move a mountain? What does that even mean to move a mountain? And you look back at the light. As it starts bouncing around your head like a cartoon. Dazed? Not confused. No one sold you the idea that there is hope to hold onto. It was behind the screaming. Hope was the light source and the metaphor I was talking about earlier. Keep screaming. We will hear you eventually.
The_Republik