New Jersey, Part III

“I haven’t the gut for writing anymore,” I decide sitting in the stairway that leads up to the backdoor entrance of the Comfort Inn on Route 57 in Hackettstown, New Jersey; chain-smoking. Wearing a t-shirt in the lovely spring weather, seventy-degrees and clear, sitting lengthwise on a step halfway down the stairway, the backdoor propped open with an old piece of wood: and I’m always in and out; and I’m always start and stop. Sure, sure, I’m always expectation: on the bleachers rooting for some kind of found meaning, purpose, beauty or sympathetic set of ears. But I’m never agenda: on the field, giving one hundred ten percent for a scholarship I know I’ll just drink away anyway. I never espouse too much of anything when it comes down to personable barebones (at least save underneath the bleachers), but that most certainly never stops others from guessing-slash-assuming-cum-hypothesizing-cum-judging. And often the most rat-fink-fucked end of the deal is above all else I just want-slash-need to drip heavy and quick into a pair of foreign cochleae. To exercise some demons with some found meaning. To have those drips ripple and resonate. To have those ghosts meet me at the bar, fool me into thinking they are strangers, and then after I’ve bought them a few pitchers, they’ll buy me a cab home.