It’s blue sunday
and you’ve just left me
raw, exhausted, and too full.
My feet itch.
I’m looking at my book of places
and all I want to do is let those feet carry me away.
throw all my possessions curbside
to just get the hell out of here!
Each page I flip is a place I haven’t been to yet,
a sight that hasn’t filled my eyes with contented wonder and awe yet,
a scent that hasn’t teased and tantalized my pheromones yet.
Each page I flip is a place,
foreign and beautiful,
that I have not possessed yet.

I want to lay my hands all over this earth.
To stare down the vistas of Central America
till she trembles under my lecherous gaze.
I want to walk my finger tips round bare
thousand year old alphabets
on ancient libyan desert cave walls,
like faded tattoos needled into their skin.
Then gently press my parted lips to every last freckle
in the mosaic tiled floors of Morocco.
I want to lick that addictive sweet nectar
from the poppy petals of Khanpur’s valley
and pleasure every last glacier to their final days
as they melt beneath my tongue.
I want to tongue the scars of Manchu Pichuu.
Dirty dance with Venezuela.
Sit on Cannon Mountain’s Great Stone Face
Caress the swollen, aching, hills of Scotland
and clamp my teeth down hard at their tip.
I want to strip southeast asia down
and walk her stretch marks round China
Erected brick by brick from the labors of her body.
I want to keep Paris, and London, and Berlin, and Istanbul, and Rio de Jeniro up aaallll night!
I want to wrap Beruit up in my arms
and kiss away his wounds
and know him deep and hard
as he is in my blood.
Than float on the Indian Ocean’s buoyancy
as he yanks my hair between his finger tips
and thrusts his salty fluid down my open throat.
I want to learn the language of ancient greek symbols,
alpha and omega and crazy eights
spell them out with my hips on Athens tip.
Feel the head waters of the nile
gush free between my thighs.
And finally, to climb, and pant, and force, my way through thinning air
to release
at Nepal’s peak
where together we stretch our bodies
ridged and tense
as close to nirvana as they’ll reach.

But I’m still here,
sitting on my couch,
my book of places dog-eared and coffee stained in my lap.
And there’s something about you that tells me to stay in this place.
What reminds me is the way
I, sometimes, want to inhale you
like the exhausted sticky aroma of another county
that comes from my suitcase
only after I’ve returned home.