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if Artaud was a woman

Schizophrenic banshees know Castaneda didn’t find the mother path to god. naked forms fly dying into night, the dance of darkness blowing meaning into all. singularity of bone is not depravity but the abundant joy of image. the miracle of becoming. the work of imagination. wide, complex, multiple. he doesn’t know that inside lies a beast. she speaks in tongues. she speaks in organs. she speaks in gallbladders, kidneys, hearts. they spilled out of skins and went to dance in the gutters. free at last, the organs form a cult, their slogan “dance like there’s no tomorrow,” because by then they won’t be round and pink and flush with spongy life. they’ll deflate and decompose into the mother breast of cosmic dust, the earth, the soil, the way we dreamed the arrows to the heart. pumping blood. they shoot the nerves of what remains. bones scatter- lucky. but the glands, marginalized, end in hospital beds. one pituitary lump, lying in the sheets, can’t even dream of castration. it peers at you with cartoon eyes. you see the cavalcade of organs, picketing in the street against their own ostentatious departure. you see the skeletons running, the tiny animated glands on beds (intuition caricaturized, stripped of potency), reddish streams of fluids seeping west. muscles pulse in stupid piles of limp contractions and cartilage grows alone at in a field of cabbage. the space between these entities pulses with neon hope, crystallizing at its edges like the sound of fluorescent lights and you know without tasting the metal on your tongue that it all feeds into daybreak and Kazuo Ohno is holding your hand and you are a baby made of elephant dung and empire dust. you wear a necklace of amber, one eye of lapis lazuli, the other wolf yellow, bones of a small snake adorning your ankle. the organs meet in caves, harnessed only by embryonic longing. the heart wears a gown, the spleen, a cape, and the gallbladder, Mozart’s wig. even the skin, collapsed of form, carries an iron crown. You are interested only in larynx shards, cast into silver speckles and adorning the walls of your favorite museum. There, they dim the lights and Carlos himself sits at a wooden table. he smiles. You know Don Juan is watching on the projection, but you pretend not to look. you are wearing a fabulous green dress, sitting with pearls between your legs, laughing as blood gushes out between your teeth. no masochism here. it is purely liberatory and there is no pleasure, no pain, no desire but something better: a yearning that already knows. it is beyond you and through you at once. an old woman cackling sense through your graying hairs, the bells in your chest you’d forgotten knew how to chime. the organs, it turns out, could not be removed all at once, but they could be sewn together, softly, gently, with a skilled Reiki master. you thought this seemed a bit anticlimactic, but it serves your purpose nonetheless. you stop obsession. you see the illusion in the dream. society’s naked ghost turns to you easily and said “I am here.”

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