You always are the one who showed me how—"gray would be the color if I had a heart."
Take it all away—you took me all away in your magic hand and I opened every finger—one by one—and had nothing left. Nothing. From the tensile yawn at the center of the palm (at its bottom) to the digit extensile of palm-four fingers, there is the same: nothing. "You make this all go away. I'm down to just one thing. I'm starting to scare myself. I just want something I can never have." Same for the mother, same for the daughter—this is ok for me, not for you, very not ok at all for the little boy. You can take it home, do it once, change your ideas about it, come back to the house, diminutive in its shadow—I could never touch it—reactive in its negativity, proactive in its effect, positive in its affect. Wild in its negativity. Highly/lowly portent. Leftly/rightly in its potency. Forever known to the tab of all reasons. Highly/lowly—fastly/slowly. Proffering me through a pantaloon of reasons, profering me through a pantalon of reasons. Seeking guidance counseling for my bird—lost. In the cage, Corky—lost in the cage. He sought counseling, chirped it out in binary, punched out the request over and over and punched it out again. It was lost or ignored, the request fettered, Corky-Cork made the request against his cage (bars) and retreated to the sun. How did he do that, you ask. How did he make the request? Well, it was made in burgeoning triplicate, through the air, with a tri-lamp on the side, where Corky used to hit his head—and that was all. (Punched it out.) Smack-rabbit in Drano, triplicate I never had. Made me steaks on the side—enough to feed two people—and I ate them snack-rabbit-thin on the green side with a stomach up and mystery reveling every hole—every hole—e v e r y h o l e. If I lifted the peep cover on every hole it would be your face in every one—every fucking one. And that upsets me. It upsets me to the final question of when and where and how you came into existence—you're obviously here. You're obviously real and "gray" and me and all those little adjectives that come into play—you're obviously here and simple and idealistic—you're obviously making of the worlds and calling everything into question. You're obviously on the stimbly side of nature—obviously arrayed against my lookup dictionary—obviously set against everything—everything. This is the fallout side of the bomb—on this side we must wear suits to protect us from the planetary structure of WHATEVER WAS HERE BEFORE!! That is the mystery! That is the planetary! That is the wholistic structure of the arc. This is all the post-bomb structure revealed. This is all the post-birth bereavement of time. This is all the post-revelatory pinprick of a diamond's heart once—once!—nowhere but once does it hang itself on my walls—nowhere but once does it do this or that!—nowhere but once does it zoom about trying the timeless mysteries of nature (god!)—the zoom/planet of everything—ancient but sodomized—you have presented yourself so wisely, piece by ancient piece—every one as two, such as I'd have to pick the correct one out of every two to consummate the total spoke as one, one of everything, one mother found, that is the chocolate cake =) that is the mobile whole—the consummate pleasure once in the baking, once in the making—once in the process, once in the cooking—once in the step by step, once, finally, in the darkness. If you look, that is where you'll find me!—Stepping step by step in filial darkness. That's where I am—deep in the filial darkness—that is all. Torn from crib by my sister. She is outside the Room, never to enter once more—rain and grief-struck tumult crying down from the light panel, boring me with the silent substances of grief. That's all you ever knew: playing the grief on my room from above—(the side, the bottom)—that is where you lay. Turning on the grief. Turning on the bathroom's shower—from the control panel. Turning on the bedroom's sunshine—from the control panel. Say, "Action!" Say, "Let's start up the rain now. Start up the panel fires." Calmly. You incinerate me with unnatural fires, unnatural flames—unnatural carnage, unnatural butchery. Unnatural sharps and unnatural slaughter—winsome caricatures of the smiley kind. That is all you have known—all you have ever known. Of us, your children. Of us, your kind. We look up at you, eager-eyed, we look up at you after coming out of the hole. That is all we ever do: look up at you. All we have ever done: look up at you. You are mother, goddess, completeness of mankind. You are every little bit of more—every little bit of womankind—fastened to the rope around your neck. Loosen it!—Loosen it! Loosen that rope around your neck, dear mom, loosen it all the way.
When you do, when that you totally, totally do, then will be the moment when you look into my eyes—I am one of the things—and you will love me for the silent moment—love me in totality—love me once and love me once and for all—that I will smile at you, my momma, smile at you and close my eyes—and you will close your eyes—deleting words from the lexicon—and this will no longer be the pen of deletion—but of addition—you will close my eyes once and for all—but I will have closed them already—a race condition to close your eyes forever. And once these eyes are closed—that will be the end of my story.