SIXTH HOOKER POEM (mourning lullaby)

I.

my first memory is fictional an image developed in the darkroom of meditation to satisfy the need for a first memory, a cardboard mother sitting with her cardboard child on her lap, no colors only white surface and scanty suggestion of faces light pencil sketches of eyes nose mouth, this scene depicts my first experience of unconditional love, the guru’s assumption of universality that reminds me so of exactly my mother a figure that will topple over if I blow on it, my breath held tightly against my spine do not disturb happiness it’s so fragile do not disturb your mother while she sits here trying to love you to tolerate the aspects of you that are missing. a wild child appears! from a dream of a child with needs like the ones she remembers when she goes into a quiet room in her brain and watches a movie of a mother sitting with her child on her lap (back then not yet grandmother no confusing doubling no surplus memories), a mother looking down at me like a child begging for love, how do I invent a feeling how do I erase emptiness, to look into a set of eyes like you’re seeing something on the other side, like looking into a two-way mirror and knowing that someone is standing behind your other self watching you, to gaze so firmly that the other starts to doubt her own invisibility

II.

here is my insistence on existence here is a woman like a red light in the dark like the nightlight that keeps the city from sleeping, the obstinacy of the sprouting weed, leave me on the forest floor like hansel & gretel let me solve my own puzzle by eating every breadcrumb I’ve dropped behind me and not until I’ve done that will I stop killing myself with lack of memories and lack of happinesses and lack of possibilities of reconciliation, I count my duvet like a sheep, one soft warmth one soft warmth until I drown in the cloud that reflects itself in the sea from which it took off, how do I break myself like a wave, how do I reach out and grab my fellow human’s heart-shaped balls two spheres of unlived life like two golfballs tossed at the body’s wall, how do I hold the man the woman in my arms without looking ahead to disaster the moment when one of us clutches too tight, feelings that can’t be passed on only demanded in uncomprehending arm-pulls love! love! love! the imperative of why aren’t you smiling why aren’t you melting into my arms like I’ve melted into the arms of others before you, and my mother how she haunts me how she appears in all the neatly crackling ideologists of media research authority, why are you shaming yourself why are you shaming yourself endless attempts at upbringing, I’m just trying to help you become the person you should have been, I’m just trying to erase the pain for you erase the emptiness that stands here looking like a woman, and put myself in itstead like when a woman has a child to live on after death like when the tumor has spread out into the whole skull and the surgeons cut off the patient’s head to cure him like when the serial killer kills his victims to make more room for himself in the world,

III.

here is the biggest lack of space I’ve ever seen so many mothers breaking their backs carrying around the concept of baby the desirability of men, don’t disturb society while it sits here pulling your teeth from your mouth like some kind of fast-forwarded aging process, maybe you just need to have some kids that you can sit and stare at until they feel welcome, maybe you just need a man to take charge of you a job to pull your soul out like teeth from your mouth like milk from the crying breast, maybe you just need to be restarted retold a new childhood freshly developed, sit your shameslit down right here and listen to the therapist’s lulling tales, it all started with a piece of desire a glowing apple in the night, see how it jumps up and sits on the branch that pulls itself towards an ever-shrinking trunk it almost looks like an aging process if it weren’t for the fading wrinkles, a woman that gathers herself around herself preparing for lonely death the failed attempts at stretching her hands out like branches and letting apples grow and fall into other women’s shirts, look, when we rewind you become a martyr dying in the moment you clutch the mechanism you came from a kind of icarus of self-pity, yes this moment right now came first and then youth folded into childhood like a flower closing up shop for the night, like a chick dying in its nest abandoned by the life-saving fluff of the brooding ass, it’s never too late to have another unhappy childhood, it’s never too late to be disgusted by the unwashable filth of your violations, say after me I’m ruined for life write it on the blackboard a hundred times that’s how you raise a person to feel worthy that’s how you beat loss out of a woman with an obligatory welfare system marketed as care an endless cycle of somebodycares not about you but hey it’s still caring right? right? right! it’s never too late to regret what can’t be redone, eve eating the apple and with her mouth full of unconditional sensory perception handing it to adam with a smile like a nightlight, here in the man’s mouth is maybe another dead end here is maybe an illusion as powerfully glowing as the hearth in his chest maybe a new world,

IV.

how do I tell the difference between hell and the promised land in any other way than by following the trail of decreasing pain and fading demands for emotion, give me anything that lights up the dark a warm cock in the vacuum of the crotch a banknote mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, not much is much more than nothing, give me anything but the two empty eyes chanting down at me trying to love we only want to help you why are you hitting yourself why are you hitting yourself BE HAPPY OR WE’LL FUCK YOU UP take my hand TRUST US OR WE’LL PUT YOU IN JAIL love should be a matter of course NO ARMS NO CAKE no reflection no help from here, goodnight little girl goodnight fair prince goodnight goodnight and sleep tight

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