Head in Flames

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Look: I am standing inside the color yellow.

Look: something wells up at the corner of Theo van Gogh’s vision as he bikes to work one morning one hundred and fourteen years later.

Look: the short fat filthy pig peddling among the herd of short fat filthy pigs in his faggot blue T-shirt faggot striped suspenders faggot gray jacket faggot tattered jeans.

The vast fields of ripe wheat in July.

A dreary Tuesday in November.

You stepping leisurely from the doorway into Allah’s will.

Afternoon sunshining in my chest. The high yellow note swarming. How the dusty heat sparkles the atmosphere with flecks of light.

Vincent van Gogh’s brother’s great grandson, peddling.

He’s where he’s supposed to be you where you’re supposed to be and this is how you bring two trajectories together.

How these elements unspool into a ravishing Sunday.

Peddling, Theo absentmindedly imagines himself a pudgy forty-seven-year-old puffer fish with short blond curls darting on an old black bike among a school of them on Linnaeus Street.

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