The Void In Me

Dark Form, 1963 — Phillip Guston

I was drunk.

Old Hank was playing —
Into these last few beers, I have shed a million tears.
You are on my lonely mind.

and the void consumed everything
except the coyote.

The coyote sat just out of reach of my headlights.

Staring.
Wild and beautiful.

Just like her.
Then I laughed uncontrollably.
A coyote ain’t a good sign.

—

She endured me.

I came home after the worst fucking night smoking a cigarette and thinking.
And she’d listen and paint.

Then she’d show me.
And it would be pink and gold
And blue and violet

I couldn’t say anything.
Language was inadequate.

So I’d kiss her.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.

Then we’d go to bed.
And she loved me.
And I loved her.

And the void in me didn’t take her.

Red, 1968 — Mark Rothko

The sound of an ice machine in the hallway woke me.

My hands shaking.
My heart fast, normal, then fast again.
I’d been sweating but I was freezing.

Withdrawals.

My skin itched from the inside.
Nauseated but couldn’t throw up.
I got out of bed and looked at the room.

Silence.

The familiar ache set in.

—

Another woman left my room.
She wouldn’t even take payment.
I couldn’t perform.

Everything I was went with you.
She got what was left of me.

And she laughed about it in the hallway.

I was on my couch chain-smoking cigarettes.
The curtains were drawn.
I could see myself in the screen.

I turned on the TV.
A Pastor spoke of spiritual matters.
I changed the channel.

INFOMERCIAL.

I finished my cigarette.
I changed the channel again.

PLEASE ENTER YOUR CREDIT CARD INFORMATION TO ACCESS ADULT CHANNELS.

I returned to the Pastor.

His face was familiar to my drunkenness and brought with it an ache.
He spoke about Solomon.
How Solomon built kingdoms, wrote proverbs, knew how to lead.
How a man’s worth was in what he could construct.

Then I remembered him.
It was Pastor fucking Ramos.

The room became water.
Dark and freezing.
Islands visible but too far to reach.

Drowning, I turned the TV off.

My eyes adjusted to my reflection in the black screen. I looked shapeless, briefly lit when the cigarette flared.

The ache returned, this time in my fingers.
The cigarette had burned down to nothing.

I turned the TV on and returned to the Infomercial.

They were selling tape.
A profoundly strong tape.

They repaired many things with it, even constructed a boat out of it.

CALL NOW TO BUY THIS EXTRA STRONG TAPE

I laughed uncontrollably.
I called the phone number.

“Hello and thank you for calling the variety network. Which product would you like information on?”
“The tape.”
“Very good choice.”
“I have a question.”
“Okay.”
The line was silent and I became embarrassed.
“I forgot.”
“Okay.”
“Hey, what’s your name, man?”
When the salesman began to speak, he called me sir and I hung up on him.

I switched back to the porn.

Portrait II, 1965 — Phillip Guston

I took a walk in Vegas.
Away from the strip.
Into the darkness of the desert.

I was hidden behind a rock when the drugs took hold.

I looked from behind the rocks and saw
despite the darkness
the light on the strip never flickered.

It’s how I found my way home.

Vegas had me.
Even if she didn’t anymore.

The Light, 1964 — Phillip Guston