Lance Olsen - Head in Flames

Believe in me.

I make no apologies for my brushstrokes.

Theo rotating in place with deliberation.

Squeeze the trigger with constant pressure .

Like a lightning strike: my pen in my sketchbook.

They out-honeymooning the honeymooners several terraces over.

Time your firing with your breathing .

After his poor painter brother. Imagine. After me.

The room hollowing with her voice that wasn’t there.

Inhale .

Blue-veinish baby skin.

Theo trundling across the honking road among halting traffic.

Exhale.

Baby fragrance: the faint parmesany whiff of vomit.

The guy with the gun dogging him. Leisurely.

Discharge a round .

The bar at the Caf Alcazar.

And after the coffee and platter of melon slices, grapes, and strawberries at the umbrellaed table, down to the beach for a swim.

Discharge a round .

I remember.

Later, a witness reported that it appeared as if Theo were trying to shoo away flies from his wild blond head.

Make sure to retake aim after each shot, for the recoil will have offset your alignment .

My father is now part of my audience. He holds a naked doll in each hand. They take turns in girlish versions of his voice naming the varieties of my sonnish failures.

Another that he seemed to be addressing the street beneath his feet as he progressed from one side to the other, repeating, almost under his breath—

Take your time .

The bar at the Cafe Alcazar never closed.

— don’t do this—

Take your—

Shortly after ten p.m., the place started magneting those without cash for lodging. They ordered cheap drinks, rested their heads on folded arms, and wafted into sleeplessness.

No one interceding.

A falcon hanging over desert scrub .

For Monsieur Vincent, who remained awake three nights in a row to paint the bar in order to pay an outstanding bill from its proprietor, the café became a harsh, lopsided, shuddering contrast of reds, greens, and loneliness.

No one at all.

Discharge a round .

After his poor painter brother’s dead little brother, too: my other Vincent.

Gezelligheid .

Living fully these minutes that have finally been given you.

Raising my head above the water, looking around briefly, and sinking back under again.

Mercy.

A holy gift.

Open your mouth , Doctor Gachet requesting near my offended left ear.

Better him than me , the others apparently thinking. Better them than us .

You hope these minutes will last forever.

Swallow , he says, spooning me a viscous elixir.

Attaining the far bike lane, Theo lowers himself daintily to the cinnabar asphalt and sits with his legs veed open before him.

After the gun goes off, continue pulling the trigger until it stops, then release and prepare for the next round .

Monsieur Vincent humping his shoulders and ghouling his face in disgust.

Raggedy Theo.

Discharge a round .

Remember: in celebration, in hope, I painted for baby Vincent the branches of an almond tree in cream blossom against a cerulean sky.

Not yet.

This improves accuracy and reduces shot-to-shot variation, just as follow-through does for, say, a golfer or a tennis player .

Kissing little Vincent’s soft baby pate.

Behind Theo a shop selling washing machines.

Inhale.

Your rotten teeth screeching at the harsh sweetness.

When he raises his palm again—

Discharge a round.

And, in the evening, how the sea became a limitless apricot glistering.

— the sixth in his left shoulder.

A holy gift .

I sat on the beach, Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer at my back, trying very hard to see.

A young woman screaming.

You become aware of a young woman in a black scarf screaming at you six steps to your right.

A brief dream: I reach for an orange.

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.