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 NEED TO RUN

 

 

 

YOU NEED TO LISTEN

 

 

 

YOU NEED TO TELL ME YOUR NAME

 

 

 

YOU NEED TO TELL ME HIS NAME

 

 

 

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.