I.
past the croatian catholic church
and into the never ending lincoln tunnel
new jersey, where i swore i'd never go
and the gap in the skyline still hits me like a brick.
like a ghost haunting me.
i can't look away. i watch
the spire of the empire state building
it keeps my eys
clings tight
while i slowly slip into this nothing
nowhere land.
wonder if the seaside in will be perched on concrete too
clinging fast
like this motel 6.
and newark begins to look quaint
or something.
with it's shitty grafitti
bricks
empty echoscape
sidewalks haunted by whoever used to walk here.
gone.
these broken windows make me wonder
sailing past
and this man selling pretzels from a cart
in the middle of the road.
the one legged men leaning on crutches
leaning up against a nothing building.
but trees
cars
concrete.
this must be real.
and i'm leaving new york for i don't know where.
the place that keeps the beat,
in time to my soul.
metronome metropolis
paces me
click tick tick
grounds me
breathe deep.
i shift nervous in my seat
as the distance between me and the city stretches
farther
till the spire is out of sight.
and it's all behind me.
in limbo
going to this place, i don't no where.
and cars
and sky
yellow lines on the road fix my eye.
pave the way to the sea
several hours away.
this girl speaking russian too loud on her cell phone
i'm leaving i don't know what behind.
and here i am
nowhere.
travelling to you.
going i don't know where.
compelled
nervous
scared
i don't know
i don't know why.
and there is nothing to see but smog laced sky
concrete highway
speeding as fast as this huge bus can go.
more motels perched once more
on concrete.
a view to nowhere.
room without a view.
within walking distance to nowhere.
i don't know
i don't know why.
524E-3 what?
in all your uniglory
railway cars staked.
amtrak line
taxi cabs
and impatient me.
an actual road called the ikea highway
and all its littered existence.
this trash thrown from i don't know where
litters this grass along the way.
a butterfly amongst the weeds
wildflowers next to the coffee cup graveyard.
maple trees
dead bushes
and the stop start stop start
i'll never make it
i'll never escape this new jersey turnpike
past the toll booth
and on to you.
moving right along
i don't know where
i don't know
i don't.
II.
put on my headphones so hawksley and martha can lull me
into a distant place
off in my own world.
so many refrains speak to me about pain and tears
hate/self-hate
i know too well.
lonelyness inside
hearts ripped and torn
forever.
and it resonates at a frequency that scares me.
when i look up from this distant inner space
"never liked myself before, now even less"
trees and telephone wires
powerlines.
another hotel set awkwardly in the middle of greenspace
perched on concrete.
within walking distance to nowhere.
nothing
a lonely soul.
failure...waiting for godot.
waiting.
things i am sure of.
a mental note that things aren't really so bad.
...if i don't open my eyes or mind too wide that is.
wallowing in my own shit
or wallowing in the worlds'.
i'm swallowed up
who am i kidding?
this is still new jersey
and i've never been so eager for he state line.
delaware seems one inch closer to my destination,
so why do i feel so sad?
this music box randomly selects the soundtrack to my life.
this bus
to delaware
dela-where?

and one more:
ocean city has no lockers
so don't even bother to ask.
but the international student center will let you stow your bags,
if you ask the russian girl nicely.
i'm gonna write the mayor.
you have had more life than i'll ever know.
i bogart a kiss.
hold hands
"queers" they sneer.
the old pirate funhouse
with a train of children gripping tightly to my bag
as you lead the way
brave.
i have a free we'moon daytimer
you have a slingshot organizer
and cool tattoos.
wise wise you
teeny tiny you.
and salt water taffy
a pound of fudge.
all you can eat.
i talk to much.
tell me to shut up.
i wish you talked more
but you don't need to.
and delaware is nice.
and i'm still glad i don't know what chipped beef is.
the bus stops in laurel,
and the mom swats her kids
and yells when they cry.
and the two year old repeats back
mimicking "jesus! jesus!"
and corn feilds.
bargain bills.
and the smokers smoke
while the smell of pizza and hot dogs makes my belly turn.
but empty.
this pen is dying,
or it's the motion of the bus.
i haven't cried yet
still buzzed on free taffy.
sad for you, missing you.
and five more hours till "home"
remember 50 cents to walk the pier.
in delaware, laurel, plush velvet elvis blankets featuring
captain america and the easy rider.
i'm on my way home.
far from you.