Hands and Other Syndromes

As a child I loved to have mother gently rub my hair, and head; eyes closed I would allow her soft hands to carry me away into an’ other mothers’ arms. That never happened. I mean the mother thing, and that other mother turned out to be mainly just a lipstick smeared cloud. Now I am bald, and that other mother, whom I never met, she who gave hand jobs to the marines; I might have liked her, in a weird Oedipus Rex sort of way. I bet her hands were professionally skillful. The mother who had no motherly impulse to rub my head, is also bald and dead. Sometimes I imagine rubbing her skull, until it sings like a Tibetan singing bowl. It sings to me now of faraway mothers and their loving hands; hands that like magicians’ doves brush my invisible hair somewhere in the never-never.