Lance Olsen - Head in Flames

Monsieur Vincent wanting to laugh, but his chest having other matters on its mind.

The pond swinging lazily to your left, the black spiked fence to your right.

This conversational business is killing me.

Your gaze tracking the ground a meter ahead of your sneakers.

Plains of corn backed by hills. Canary. Pale green. Mauve.

Your grayblackwhite footblur.

My ocean: this yellow. My flowerbed: these fields.

Around you, everyone fulfilling his role.

I am lying on my back on a dirt path, trying to—

Everyone being who he or she needs to be.

No. That’s not it.

You will return to your flat. That is what you will do.

Gray is soft as surrender.

No, that is not what you will do.

It is July. It is 1869. I am sitting in a gallery restless with Rembrandts.

You will do something else. You will—

The bulbous nose. The blasted brown eyes.

You will tram to the Central Station. You will train to France. To Switzerland. Germany.

Although it is the—

You will sink into a new life.

An orange , I say, surprising myself.

The one you never anticipated would extend beyond 8:45 a.m.

Rachel?

You will call the Sheik. He will explain things. He will tell you..what? He will tell you—

Dear Theo: I have nature and art and poetry. If that isn’t enough, what is? — Your unvincenting brother,_

He will tell you—

Chiaroscuro.

You will not call the Sheik.

The trouble with the past, Toulouse-Lautrec commenting, is that the bitch is full of facts.

You will—

Noses and knuckles knobby as the tubers they’re eating.

Italy. No, Greece. Spain.

To hell with perspective. Let the cascading rooms begin.

You will cross by ferry from Algeciras to Tangier.

Keep this object like a treasure , you told her, passing Rachel the package with the best of you inside.

You will rent a car and drive into the desert. Catch a bus and ride into the desert. Stand by the side of the road, hitchhiking.

It’s like opening a win—

You will find your uncle’s house.

In his hat rimmed with shivering candles, Monsieur Vincent looks like nothing so much as a flaming sunflower in the night.

The one your father built down by the river. Beige clay bricks. A yellow door.

Is he sleeping?

Dawn pinking sand dunes all the way out to the horizon.

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—

— on your back on the dirt path—

— trying to sit up, scrabble to your feet, only the faggots are already upon you—

— a hands-and-legs flickering—

— you are on your side suddenly—

— on your belly—

— leaf bits grinding against your cheek—

— your arms yanked back—

— knee jagged into your spine—

— and you are wondering where your gun has gone, why you can’t seem to reach it—

— their language returning you to Mohammed—

— handcuffs snicking into place—

— and they are shouting at you, telling you what you will do next—

— you will stop struggling, this is what you will do next, you will stop resisting arr—

— you will do what you are told, and you will do it now—

— because your options have sifted down to this one—

— and there you are standing, hobbled, a hot nugget inside your thigh, the world become someone else’s—

— locked between a pair of them—

— one behind you, one in front—

— you can smell the egg the faggot ate for breakfast—

— the hatred on his breath—

— you are glaring into his faithless eyes—

— watching his faithless mouth move as if it has something to say—