Conception

The day is conceived, tossed bedsheets birth landscapes. Apelike, a grin gawps. In the backroom of a slow thought I dress for breakfast - recall the tropics, sticky rice, coconut milk and one huge river prawn, all wrapped in a banana leaf. Slipshod I slip away from that world adjusting my internal optics. A blueberry muffin with honey on a checkered tablecloth, lashings of watery sunshine. That was yesterday or last year. time can be as allusive as a bottomless eggcup. This absolute and irrevocable morning, my gut burns from cheap Canadian whisky. A mirror implanted into a watching mind reflects only my belly flop as I leg crawl into pants. Less feral creatures than we castaway suburbanites, gather to forage as the sky climbs over the hedgerow. I had a strange dream, It could have been last night or a faraway fear returning from a place no-where near. Maybe it was only a shadowland cast upon a cranial wall, a peeling mural upon which sermons and bibles were hung like bats from dead apple trees. The kitchen counter has a note on it: “Gone to church, there’s bread in the toaster we have run out of butter – love you.” There is an over-ripe banana by the coffeemaker. I eat it.