This is Emily.

She gets it

The reflections of myself in another
A blonde bomb, an unbound reservation,
Running scared through the Agra unknown,
She's got me in her crosshairs
Like hungry birds to an American porterhouse.  

Not found here, just samosas and shit, deep culture mixed with grit,
And a stench so bad it makes you laugh,
She knows, she understands, the unknown empty hands pull us, hurt's us, it begs for fulfillment,for anything that meets its demands.

Emily gets it. Our eyes lock and fill with an ocean we wish we were near but greatful for the tears, we push on, a cobra on her head, a monkey on my lap, I wink at a rickshaw, she looks at handcrafts.  She laughs, I smile, and think of some food.  It's been a while, but we push on.

A bath, some ice cubes, water baby.
Luxury, maybe, but not here or anywhere, everywhere we see, a cavalcade of poverty.
How one sided are we, how blinded can a nation be by what they will never see.
Oh burning garbage of Kerala, how I miss thee.


Thanks for being here with me, sharing this new world, and struggling in each moment, right next to me.  I let it hold me, and now it's time to let go.  Back to burning garbage we go.
Back to Kerala, back to green, back to jungle.
A lot forward, and a little happy back.