Give Me That Hammer

They call it repression. It's when you put things that you can't get over with into some dark corner of yourself. You take a hammer to beat them into your belly or your chest or I've met people who had them sitting in their earlobes.

What do you do if you choose not to repress the hard stuff? If it keeps alive and alive and alive in your head or your heart or I've seen people who had it living in their nostrils.

To get over with things. That's what they call it. Cross the top of the mountain, walk through the canyon, swim through the river, take that trainride with ten changes at the most impossible, inconvenient stations eyed by suspicious guys in badly fitting uniforms and, worse, hats that look like from two centuries ago when authority was still a measurable size.

I've crossed the mountain. I've walked through that canyon without water. I've reached the other side of the river after the third try, my skin peeling, a half toe frozen of, now looking like an old, crumpled radish.

My earlobes are full of people. My nostrils are tents, giving shelter to hundreds of fugitives, my belly is home to a city with buses, streetcars, bars, supermarkets and bad weather. My chest is a solar system. I've sent another spaceship searching for a new path to cross it - it got lost like the ones before.

Give me that hammer. Tell me what to do. Make me understand. Open my eyes. Give me more spaceships, more solar systems. Give me another universe.