A POEM - DIFFERENT

DIFFERENT
I road five hours through the jungle,
To sit on a rooftop terrace in a capital city,
Get eaten by mosquitoes,
Smoke old, stale cigarettes,
And sneak swigs of rotgut whiskey,
Because THEY were watching me on CCTV.
“Is this what it’s all about?” I wondered.
“why, yes. I think it is! Hee hee!”
I gave it some thought.
I had to, because I was having
Both parts of the conversation,
And they were both in my head, I think.
“hmm. Maybe, for me, it is.”
“how do you mean, ‘for you?’”
“I mean, for me, it’s about exactly this.”
“what is, ‘exactly this?’”
“jesus Christ! It’s about traveling the world,
Not for any reason, but to see it!
Through a bus window,
And a pair of scratched sunglasses.
To sit down each night in a different chair,
At a different table,
With a different view,
And write the same shit that comes out of my head.
To sleep in a different city,
A different bed,
Different sheets and different bed bugs,
Or on the floors of different bus stations.
Go out to different bars,
Meet different people,
See different arrangements of stars,
(when the stars can be seen)
To observe, not really participate.
I don’t care about fitting into every culture.
Shit, I don’t care about fitting into my own culture.
Maybe that’s why I’m not trying anymore.
When you can fit in everywhere,
You really can’t fit in anywhere.