Homing

I'm going to Burma.     
Don't try to put me off with your talk       
of insects     
or thieves     
or living conditions     
or your fucking ignorant     
spoiled mindset     
that tells you that you deserve     
a sparkling porcelain throne     
to put your shit in.     
     
I do pity the fools      
that think      
they must have all the amenities     
on their tourist track      
because they will       
guaranteed     
miss every bit of fresh breath       
in the land     
the faces     
the art     
and the dirt under the fingernails     
of a childrearing grandmother     
teaching her three-year-old grandchild     
to weave.     
     
Keep your first-class vegetarian meal     
and vodka     
premium headset     
and the catalogue in the pocket       
of the reclined seat in front of you     
and all five stars     
of your scheduled stay     
at the Holiday Inn Resort.     
     
I'm going to Burma     
with a rucksack       
and traveler's checks     
my swimsuit     
my skirts     
and my favourite jeans,     
and I'll stay in a room     
with 3 other guys     
or girls just like me     
that are there for the life     
and the breath       
of the land       
and the food     
and the faces     
for the sun       
and the sea     
and the dirt     
and the scars     
     
for the ride.     
     
And maybe     
maybe     
I'll come back.