Happy the man
Who hugs misfortune
(Uncle thinks
He should write a poem—
“The Merry Masochist”)
But he’s not ready
Poetry offers only
Illusory control
And synthesized pain
Ain’t true pain
“Artuad,” he thinks
“Was on to something”—
Never tire yourself
More than necessary,
Even if you
Have to found a culture
On the fatigue of your bones
No one truly rests
Not really
Artaud again:
In our present state
Of degeneration
It is through the skin
That metaphysics
Must be made
To re-enter our minds.
Trouble is
Uncle History
Has no skin
And he knows it
Planet of the Blind 