Jackson Town.

waiting for the gunshots. keep the money in the icebox. my two companions are woody guthrie and herman hesse. one is made of plastic, the other, paper. before i left again, i was sent a french press and a bag of coffee from a local roaster. using both now, i realize the water wasn't hot enough, but there is a delightful grainy taste that does not upset. the deluxe inn. actually "the" doesn't even exists in the title, simply "deluxe inn." thirty-five dollars. and if i return the key, i get five back. the room smells of rot. stale cigarettes and the cheap cleaners used to try and make it smell like cleanliness. coat ugly aromas. why do people assume clean has a smell. and why is there an association between chemicals with this nonexistent fragrance called cleanliness. the notion of how many people have fucked in this bed makes one neurotic. question secrecy and infidelity. rotten old hairy genitals, with matching bodies excreting personal odors. sweat.

i've made a picnic for myself on the hotel floor. using the bathroom towels, which need never be used against clean skin. the soap smells like old plastic ladies, and i feel sorry for the hands that will use it. a chair has been placed in front of the door and the couch has been moved in front of the window. overlooked by a large mirror, the desk is arranged against a wall, ideal for my needs, but its placement adjacent to the door and window makes me uneasy. so i've set myself up at a range where, if there were shots fired in my direction, i'd be too low to the ground for a direct hit, hence the picnic. the bathroom was considered, as it is farthest from the entrance, but after close examination, its condition is wary. i can almost see the bacteria multiplying. and it had no outlet.

after lying on the bed for a time, it became disturbingly clear that the five foot by three foot horizontal mirror at bed level was not placed just so for the purpose of people looking into it with their clothes on. and left of center on the mirror itself is a large smudge of sorts. i stared at it for some time wondering what part of who's body had created this smear. and why were they here and with whom, never thinking such thoughts are none of my business. maybe because they are only thoughts. so the money's in the icebox, wrapped in a floral handkerchief. the air conditioner is on. and night is decidedly a strange and funny time. nine miles from jackson there was an angry black man yelling at a vending machine. the phone rang and a man with a thick middle eastern accent asked if a wake up call was desired. ten thirty a.m. are you sure? is everything okay? everything is just fine.