Reading Nick Hornby alone at 2 a.m.

If words measured
the depth of my heart
the Grand Canyon
could only hold the
first paragraph in a
three novel series

Kenya

Right now Kenya seems like a dream seen
through the smoke of a vanilla Cojimar half
burnt between my cold fingers.
Just a place, nothing else.
Foreign tongues, colored skin,
thousands of gallons of dirty water.
Thats not a place for a musician.
What if I got dirt on my freshly bought
designer jeans? My Puma's?
Would it come out?
Like a photograph in a back issue of
National Geographic. Swollen bellies,
HIV, visions of Sally Struthers getting
paid for sitting at home.
If faith is a plane ride then I'm in.
But if faith is getting dirty and touching
someone who's never heard of Bono,
I may have to wait a while.