The not Val Kilmers

As the concrete fills your lungs




As the swelling appears on your black knuckles




As the aircraft pitches forward and your stomach somersaults




As the butt of the gun strikes the back of your head




As the sounds of sirens fill the streets




As the bombs fall




As the family runs towards you half-dressed, covered in dirt and carrying plastic bags filled with laundry



















You’re not responding to his orders because you’re thinking how he seems like he’s enjoying this, like he’s channeling Nicholas Cage or something and he doesn’t have the right kind of face to be taken seriously. You can’t take him seriously. And even as the dust cloud overtakes you both, you can’t shake the sick notion that everyone is sort of enjoying the drama, even you, and when you finally talk to the man your words sound like the words of others and your gestures seem like the gestures of others, your actions seem like the actions of others, your fist on his skull like the fist of another on another skull on the smashed teeth of others like the broken fingers of others and your swollen knuckles like the swollen hand of another blow to the temple of another mans temple and an other man’s broken nose like the nosebleeds of others and the music in the background is the music of others not your CD but the soundtrack to another scene where someone elses body is dragged from the wreckage and Nicholas Cage’s tears cried for the unknown actors being dragged from the wreckage and pummeled to death by British actors with Russian accents and Iranian born Americans of Los Angeles attaching electric wires to the fingers of your prisoners who make less noise than they do on set and look less handsome and dribble more but another persons fists break the fake bones of another actors stunt double and your running away from the heat, you’re running away from the dust and the ash and you’re running with the women who wish they were Jodie Foster and audition for bit parts in forgotten films and yoghurt commercials




you’re running with the men who wanted to be Richard Gere




you’re running with the men who wanted to be Patrick Swazye




You’re running with the women who aren’t Drew Barrymore




With the men who aren’t Tom Cruise




The not Val Kilmer’s




The not Jennifer Connellys




The not Matt Damons




All running from the dust cloud, running from the dark cells, running from the explosions, running in slow motion away from your swollen fists, past the camera and past the coffee truck and into the trailers for a 6 hour wait for the next shot, eating assorted muffins, listening to your ipod.