I hop among cultures.
No sense of home
But homes in every corner of the globe.
My only sense of direction lies in the way my exhausted body falls upon the bed.
Moments of spiraling inward, pensiveness,
the desire to write strikes in the dead of night
Or between water breaks on the mountain, as the vista from the land before time stretches in foggy green blues across the horizon.
Relationships form as a kaleidescope of images.
I live immersed in the present
But run from the future,
Cloaking myself in a patchwork quilt of layover boos and practical impossibilities. Homeless means more than home less.
I know the States when the sea of faces before me flows on a tide of slightly bloated vanilla yogurt features.
In Tanzania, colorful and self-possessed patterns nestle neatly into each other, permeated with the warm comforting smell of goats. In Mongolia, it is sheep. Everywhere. The smell seeps from the folds in sun-wrinkled faces.
And China. Too many smells make up the streets and
We’ve all phoned in the last assignment of the semester before.
I ramble to myself in a tilt of tongues, phrases picked up through mimecry and dreamlike repetition
Lap se bai de mai?
Oclooney mint, bon dia
Every morning I wake unsure of which view to expect from my pillow.
Are we tented at the edge of the world, looking out where dinosaurs in the form of stockinged birds continue to roam,
Or am i bundled in my sleeping bag atop a felt pad in the rolling possibility of the Steppe?
Should i expect a diet of cheese curd today
or will spicy curry sear my taste buds with agonizing pleasure?
All i know is the pants i have worn day in and day out,
My shoulders covered no matter where i go
(American airports are shocking in their indecency)
I could say the news doesn’t reach me here
Except the winds of discontent blow hard and fast across the pacific,
Chasing me. Reminding me
No matter which way I turn my sails,
Magnetism affects us all and I always wind up
Charging my batteries
Staring out at the view from my childhood window.