Dear New Jersey,
There is only one state I hate, and that state is you.
I know it’s unfair, given we have a whole other 49 states for me to have a distaste for, and as home to 8,721 square miles and 8,8640,590 people, New Jersey is not only home to the ungodly show, but the girl I once knew I could have loved. I could have loved, given the chance.
She said “Spanish” like “Spaunish,” “Camera” like “Caumera,” and I fell for it. I loved the way her A’s in Mass turned to the ponderous AU’s of southern folklore. She had never seen the shore, but lived 15 minutes outside “the city,” which I learned is term for New York City, which is the Jesus of suburbia when it comes to kids who live far enough way from Boston to realize we are the true Yankees you should be rooting for.
Not to mention, I was lost there once, in the mountains, coated by a blanket of fog with my father yelling in the front seat of our Hyundai as mum held the maps and did her best to navigate. And to be honest, that’s an unfair reason to have a distaste for a state, as the fog and the mountains were beautiful, and minus the cussing and the yelling, I go back to that place a lot nowadays.
I truly hate New Jersey because of her, as a reflection of how she made me feel about my own self, my own state, of being that is. And because I’ve always felt Bruce Springsteen was overrated. Sorry Bruce, but Blinded by the Light was the closet thing I ever got to singing your songs, and I always preferred Manfred Mann’s Earth Band’s version. I fell for the keyboard, mainly, and the way his lyrics flowed like whiskey into a Friday night kept me dancing for more than five minutes. His finished piece was over seven minutes, you know, and I listened to the whole thing.
She spoke of the city a lot, though she wasn’t a city kid. You could tell by her smile and the way she laughed at all the things I said, all the time, like she was nervous of what I thought. Her brown eyes were lost in a smiling squint when I spoke, and her camera bounced against her chest as she laughed. She was beautiful and smart and naive all at the same time, and I loved her for it.
New Jersey, I mainly hate your state because I no longer have a reason to go there. Because I made so many plans to visit, so many dreams to photograph you, to write you, to allow your festivities and sites and proximity to “the city” to change my own view on how I saw you, which were all crushed within a single night, within a single conversation, from a now single girl. I feel this unfair to say to you, but I hate your 8,721 square miles and 8,8640,590 people solely because of one girl. One beating heart amongst millions, one lonely state within a union.
I don’t think I’ll ever plan to visit you again, New Jersey, unless it’s another one night stay over on my way to New York City. And for that, with all I know you must have to offer under the mystique of America’s Armpit, I apologize to you, New Jersey. I never gave you the chance you deserved, and never will.
If you can ever offer me more than something related to heartbreak, you know you can always find me in New England, the heartbreak capitol of my United States. And while she may be a child of "the city," she broke my heart closer to home, and I'd rather roam the myriad streets of Boston than the gridlock of New York any day.
Oh, and Newark *****.
You could argue this isn't poetry. I could argue this isn't poetry. Regardless, I don't care. Poetry is art, and to me this is art, so that's close enough.
