Artaud is going under. He’s giddy.
The vials that line the office gleam like semi-conductors.

He lays distally (very still) as the drugs go cold
across his body. His ears pop and the balance
stones roll. Eyes lose their pupils.

We fasten the straps around those hard-to-touch
parts of the wrist. It’s a simple fetter.

He’s been here before.

The drug slices through his body
like a ship. There’s a sway—a tip
of froth around his mouth, nose, sphincter.

—

Note:
It was anatomical. With pins in it.
The dorsal aspect, covered with flags.
The lungs, eyes, livers, and bladders
were pulled out carefully. Tacked to his skin.

—

Artaud is wearing his Danmar Seizure Helmet with full face guard!

This helmet offers excellent protection from head injuries caused by drop attacks!

Disadvantages of this helmet are
- it is quite heavy
- it is very expensive (Cost: $400.00)
- it is kind of odd looking

—

Artaud took to sitting cross-legged
in the after-hours
with piles of his skin spread around him.

I could hear the swip, swip
of stacks re-arranging.

The ordering of them was important. But also,
the lack of order that happens when something
begins to represent what it was ripped off of—
when he touched one it tore
the body he pictured.

—

On a clean evenings, the patients play in the courtyard.
Clusters of straight-jackets roll down the hills, more
straight-jackets rub their backs to the trees.

Someone invented the Mirror Game:
and they throw their bodies into each other
return the bodies back where they started.

Usually they remove Artaud’s clothes
and put him ass-up in the lawn.
A chess game commences
on the flat part of his back.
They flank and check for hours.

They don’t draw the board.

—

We pinched his face in our fingers. Held the impression of skin in our fingers—when we stopped pinching it, the skin stopped too. It was a breakthrough. Even Artaud agreed: imperialism—but also an exchange.
We touched him until the room grew. Ash fell. The doctors called this love, but I remember cupping an ear in my hand—the sound of paper, paper burning, and what would be nothing. Our tender ambassadors almost-touch when they try. That’s why I whispered to him. Into the ear in my hand, I whispered decisively.

—

He lays awake touching all over. Fingers
sift through his intestines, eyes, scrotum. Thousands
of fingers, like ends of anemones. And his hands—if
they’re still hands—eat him.

—

Note:
When you need a specimen,
any specimen will do.

—

Note:
The body’s a blueprint for a room. It looks
like a regular room, but space moves
in it. The corners fold in and out .
Walls flip over. And windows push light
across the floor, mop-like. There’s no
doors, no windows, no floor to fall into.

—

Tell us about your family, Artaud.

If you look close at my grandmother’s hands, you’ll see the intestines she knits into sweaters.

—

We pinned his X-rays to the underlight
and examined them. Bones, of course

a bone map. I lit the entire apparatus, the room.
Even our eyes went bright on our faces—

Wait. I thought. Wait.

Glowey, flowing, gluey bones.

—

Artaud shivers.
His pubis sizzles.

—

Note:
Mass Reflexes.
Double Region Reflexes.
Excessive Perspiration.
Bladder Evacuation.

—

Even at full size, most patients refuse to be born—
they’re curled in large sacks that hang from the ceiling.

I have a heart to hold them on lunch breaks,
rub the heavy ones who are almost ready.

—

His body is made of atoms. Atoms swarm
incessantly. I’ve tried to rip off their green wings
and feelers. Bitten the atoms, to see if they’re real.

—

Stuffed with newspapers.
Styrofoam.
Bubble wrap.

—

Walt Whitman is strewn all over my body. Nerves. Hands. Hair. I’m covered
with nipples and empty tooth sockets. Everything’s tender, bright as a sunburn.

I go places exposing my dangly self. I throw sparks, penises, words—anything really—at passersby.

—

Cold. Breathing Freon. The zeroest absolute bone.

—

When they lop off my head, I’ll beam from the neck like a flashlight.

—

When I die, it will be like a stop sign. I’ll stop. Out of courtesy, fear.