is the pure blanket of clarity
that fills my days
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. My brother and I were lost in Santa Fe’s ugly summer, its angry cacti. I quit taking my anti-depressants and bottomed out. That’s when 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 it. 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 after I was cleared from the psych ward, Mom and I, on the road again, and all those Black-Eyed Susan’s, winking at me.