By M. Wedlock
We are not other people, you and I, we are more skeleton than breath, and in the same inhale, more breath than — a dream I would die for; I am in the kitchen, with a pint of beer (one I was promised in my dreams) and the cat I do not recognize, but its scent, a memory stain. A father sitting in some coffee shop and a newspaper contains an article about a murder(mine); in a moment of insight I realize I’d been talking aloud the whole time(the words palaver- you order pastrami on rye). I think of a place that seems unimportant to the two(a former professor and pastor). I have been the person(on this timeline) who could have taken a dog but never a cat, the one who puts up with the noise of people and the smell of urine on my pillow, the one who would have made it through university only to return to it indentured. I have always been the person in my head who was able to get a room with a window and a view — We sleep. The dogs walk, the cats stay up until the sun sets & the birds, the squirrels, & the rats all die, but it is midday. Then, at the end of the workday, we wake up, as our minds work, and our bodies become numb, shaken polyurethane airheads after dollar cocktails, our minds unable to tell time; this can happen at any moment, in any situation, to anyone that is caught in a maddening haze of addiction, I know, I have it in me. The only voice I hear is the silence of the sky, the only breath on ally hands say something like: “I feel like a tree, the only tree that grows in the darkening.” — It is dark, I keep my eyes open, because the light in my mind never stops, a graveyard reverse(womb?) it can be the last thing from yesterday making movement in faint transmissions until I fall asleep on the pavement by some waterhole. My hands and feet soaked, as if I have a good wet dream every night; some people move into my in-laws home, share a bed with my partner and I, a smell like freshly squeezed sweat in horizon-less. One of the inmates left a note in my godfather’s jail cell(the one who lived after the other perished; both circles of vehicular salt rubbed in) saying: “thE BIRD-FACED BEAR’S EYES, and the spastic claws of the dying peacock/THE BROWN BEAR’S MOUTH/ the spastic claws of the dying peacock.”
M. Wedlock is a journeyman letterpress printer, hedgewitch, son of no man, father to Shae & partner of Kristen. The space where midnight extends is a favourite refuge.