Sick Of Home Poem by Brevet Wilson

Sometime I get homesick for places I have never been.
I get wanderlust so badly it makes me grind my teeth till they shatter..

During the grave shift, at the shelter,
some nights, will I do nothing but look up bus and (even better) train schedules

I use maps and red markers to plot escape routes.
I always have a fire escape and enough bills to leave town.

8 hours spent with maps and bus schedules spread out on the floor of a locked office... plotting the great escape.

I have been homesick for Russia: (Thanks to Dostoyevsky and Akhmatovaa)

Henry Miller made me homesick for the Paris of the 40's.

I blame two things on literature:
two fatal cracks and fissures in my personality,
cracks and fissures that often manifest in 'strange' and 'inappropriate' places.

The two 'feet of clay' I place squarely on literature's doorstep are:

My ability to only feel at home in places where I am not,

and my Heroin addiction.

Cos every good junkie:
Heroin or travel
have their mentors.