Some shots ignoring him.
You have never been so happy.
My hand passing through.
Some joining with him.
The woman holding her little boy’s hand.
Dear Theo: This evening Gauguin and I plan to take a tour of the brothels so as to study them more closely. — Your knight errant
Piiiiinnnnnn-twang: ricochets.
The boy’s face untroubled as if, perhaps, watching TV.
I could have lingered there forever.
Don’t do this.
The faggot’s filthy pig eyes climbing up your torso.
When Monsieur Vincent experiences the terrible need for religion, he sometimes strolls out into the darkness and paints the stars.
Please.
You remember—
Black birds: a bewilderment of them inside my head.
Please.
You can feel them.
Did I mention I am thirsty? Perhaps.
Well., you can syndicate any boat you row.
Inhale.
Yes, I believe I—
You can’t do that! the young woman with the boy yelling. You can’t do that!
You remember—
Crows.
The barefooted unbeliever standing alone in her veil in the center of the room.
In Nablus: gunmen firing assault rifles. A squall of black smiles.
Stink of the jasmine air freshener dangling in a corner of Tam’s cubicle.
Yes, I can, you glancing over casually and informing her as you reload your gun.
No apologies whatsoever.
Raggedy Theo, sprawled, waiting for the next thing.
Her boy mesmerized by the sermon you deliver without words.
An orange slice sounds so good right now.
You’re a Leo, some moron in a peasant dress once informing him at a party. Your element is fi—
Look: you have become a teacher.
How it would fruit coolly on my tongue.
The Tuileries.
Professor Bouyeri.
I would like to hear my mother’s voice one more time.
After dinner, we strolled through the tinseling bluegraylight.
Blood smear or lipstick smear.
I remember—
Your ruling planet: the sun. Your secret desire: to be famous. Theo endured the twit temporarily because she was in her early twenties and flaunted a pink bob and pert tits.
It was difficult to tell which in the flickery late-night streetlights.
A certain aching.
You like to think you’re special, she told him. You love attention and will do almost anything to get it.
Allah moving your mind to move your hand.
As if my chest were not thinking more and more for itself.
At the party in the Hague for that shit of a director.
Your voice the snap of an oily blue 9mm.
I remember—
Dazed.
Listen to them listening to you.
Dear Theo: Here is the truth about aesthetic matters: you should never become slave to your model. It all ends there. — Your daily complication
The seventh and eighth in the region of his groin.
Go.
Always simplify your shapes, Monsieur Vincent advising Bernard at the lone table on the banks of the river.
Theo doesn’t flinch.
Look: his sins seeping into his lap.
Another day paling into itself through my unvast nonpalace.
Rather, it is his body flinching for him.
This morning is a holy privilege. Embrace it.
Call it another day.
Firecrackers crackling to life inside Theo’s school desk as he cat-grinned.
Because it isn’t what comes out of your mouth that counts.
Gulls lifting over a seaside town.
Somewhere in the world it is a holi—
It’s never that.
Plummeting.
The fierce desire to always be here.
Because it never ends with words.
A telegram, Monsieur Ravoux announcing at some point during the duringness.
There is nothing bluer.
Everything you ever wanted sitting in front of you on the road.
Although Monsieur Vincent is less than entirely clear about the strict context of the announcement: has one been sent, imagined, received?
Breathing.
If you can call that sitting.
Like wild harpy’s hair: the magpie’s nest in the tall acacia.
Look: he’s—
The way—
Two dark gray marbled eggs.
Breathing.
Leave us.
Monsieur Vincent promises he will have to think about this later.
The ninth with a jolt in his neck.
Look at his soul leap.
No, you may not paint my—
Startled by its copious transgressions.
Dear Theo: Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go. — Your unmoored captain
Reaching up shakily to finger the gargling he has become.
You standing in the bike lane, admiring your invention.
But now Monsieur Vincent has other concerns. He must, for instance, attempt to determine who seems to be holding his hand.
Theo laughs aloud on his bike: the cute coed with the heart-shaped ass: where—
The seconds arresting around you.
If in fact it is anyone at all.
— no, something else, what, I don’t, a charcoal beach beneath a charcoal sky, what’s, yes, maybe in the—
Pride’s passing flush.
More paint: this is always one answer to many questions a man might pose.
Theo lowering, lowering, lowering his chin to chest.
And then plunking your gun into your pocket and turning your attention to the other thing.