On the third floor of a carless parking garage  
50 people or so, some I know, march towards me
like the pharmaceutical flash mob in commercials.
I join their trek to the restaurant at the top
where every meal is five stars and three figures.  

A woman poet travels behind me.
The djinn of an older lawyer keeps
his protective hand on my shoulder.
In a narrow passageway on the fourth level
a gunshot victim crumples on the cement.  

He’s a black sack corpse of brush stroke bones,
a Kanji come to life, about to leave it.
He lifts his head, props on an elbow.  
When the djinn of an older lawyer comes to help,
the Kanji pulls and points a gun.  

Bang! muff-cuffs my deadened ears.
I can’t feel if the djinn is shot or not.
I eject from the cockpit’s body.
We all run, there’s an active shooter,
Kanji or the unseen one who shot him.  

I rappel the side of the parking structure.
My feet hit ground away from the crowd.
I sprint the field to become a distant target.
I imagine places without active shooters
but realize that’s where active shooters go.  

Everywhere, there’s an active shooter –
Kanji or the unseen one who shot him,
also government agents, even neighbors.
Chaos is quicksilver in our brains.
None know if the djinn is shot or not.