Head in Flames

Is he sleeping?

The magnificent magenta—

Theatrical chiaroscuro.

Casablanca.

The acrid bite of hay.

You will not drive into the desert. You will not find your uncle’s house. You will do something else. You will—

Is that him?

When you raise your head again, three policemen in bulletproof vests are washing toward you up the path.

A man on fire walks into your room.

One opens his mouth to speak. In a single motion you dodge left, slip your hand into your pocket, remove your gun, and start shooting.

Give me your ears, says the man on fire. Give me your eyes.

He grips his side and crumples.

Is he sleeping?

And then you are running.

Sien waiting on her lamp-lit corner in a drizzle, discounting herself to passers-by in lavender undertones.

You are veering left, following the pond’s curve, shouts scrambling at your heels.

Blue irises: never forget those.

The bridge. The trees hazing past.

Wooden slats thumping beneath your feet.

My world: this bed, these springs, my racked back.

The important thing being to—

Monsieur Vincent is reaching out his hand to shake Gauguin’s for the last time.

— being to breathe.

The pistol, once in my pocket, now in my palm.

Steady-

My ache growing tentacles.

Steady inhalations and exhalations.

Through my chest. Down my arms.

Let the faggot—

Droll Mount Fuji among those insignificant French hills.

Because if you lose your breath, you lose this race.

Sky rushing away from him.

Because if you lose this race, you lose yourself.

The important thing being to—

Rugbying into an old man with cane.

— being to breathe.

The grunting impact.

How his body pitches sideways, cane airborne.

That’s it. That’s—

You don’t alter your pace.

Eleven hundred drawings.

You barrel on.

Panting like a hamster’s heart beating.

Although it—

Into a woman wearing a raincoat and transparent plastic rain hat, her red and white grocery bag detonating.

No. That’s—

Apples. Breadsticks. Deodorant. Juice box. Bushy broccoli. Batteries. Sponge. Blackbrown bottle of soy sauce.

Take reality by surprise.

Scattering a pack of squealing girls on their way to school.

The rustle of—

Your shoulder keening.

It is late afternoon. I am sure of it.

And out again into the open, white bandstand with black iron skeleton pumping at the adrenaline edges of your vision.

Unless it is evening.

The tidy row of vacant park benches watching over the pond.

— I—

And then another cluster of police clumping down the path straight at you.

Five of them. Eight.

The bliss of infant smell.

You pivot right, zag across the blanching lawn—

Remember—

— aiming for the wading pool—

— lungs searing in a frying pan—

Pink peach trees: you mustn’t forget those.

— flames rolling up and down your legs—

Give me your hands, says the man on fire. Give me your lips.

— landscape throbbing into whiteout—

— they calling for you to stop—

— drop your gun—

More paint, please.

— or they’ll shoot—

— others swarming out of the trees—

— weapons drawn—

— and so, in the end, this is what you will do: you will—

I am standing inside the color yellow.

— you will shut your eyes—

— like this—

— running into them—

— shouting—

stumbling, sightless, forward—

— their gravities pulling you in—

— the contents of the universe falling out of your head—

— your gun rising again—

— firing into the rosy light—

The silvery snap startles the afternoon.

— a bullet amazes your thigh—

— spinning you left—

Look:

— the thrill of it opening your eyes—

— and next—

— and next you are lying among leaves—