You cannot see him. He is not there

You cannot see him. He is not there. What you see is a cut-out. A shadow puppet. Ink black unhinged limbs. A fake guitar. You look with dislocated eyes. Blinded vision. In the wrong place, wrong time. You’re out of line, in the wrong order. They sent him to the Dreaming: the space in-between day and night, past and present. Everywhere. He had the bad taste of gun grease from where the rifle slid down his throat one beer sour night. Yes. No. Should he? Shouldn’t he? He thought of his little sister. Knew she’d be sad, mad if he pulled the trigger, sang the song. They called to him, meet us in the Dreaming, in the land where the ancestors roam, in a network of dreams. They said, dot yourself in the geography, the locus of earth and sand. Draw burnt sienna on grey rock. Crouch in the desert with your brother, next to the snake where they made the sun. They said, to tell you: Stop looking. You cannot see him. He is not there.