I was knee deep in Cormac McCarthy’s All The Pretty Horses.
I recorded nine hours of Pink Floyd onto cassette tapes from a scratchy and faded Colorado station.
Lost in Santa Fe’s ugly summer, its angry cacti.
I quit taking my anti-depressants and bottomed out.
I downed the rest and headed for New Mexico’s endless oasis.
The green belt.
Think empty and rusted cars.
Sun faded porno’s.
Abandoned washing machines.
Suddenly, a dark and moody patch of forever-charcoal clouds shone on.
I found a wallet, with a bullet hole – pierced through.
I found a shady shrub and sat down.
I felt nothing.
And the Nothing was growing inside me.
And I realized I was dying.
Two songs found me then;
“Jesus Don’t Want me for a Sunbeam” and
“Things are Going to Get Easier.”
I remember spilling apple juice all over the place.
Taking off my clothes.
Crawling into bed.
I remember the stomach pump.
My lips were blue.
My hair was brown.
I remember the sunflower fields in Kansas.
Mom and I, on the road again.
And all those Black-Eyed Susan’s.
Winking at me.