I have **** psychic brainwaves
You have hot sauce in your bones
So let's wreck the competition
In my **** psychic home

Bugdom returns!
A swift kick in the beta-traced alcove rocks my world,
and my dream release is twofold:
One of Mrs. Booras's 5th grade class, and
one of a crow perched on a tree,
looking through a window into
Mrs. Booras's 5th grade class.

I named the crow Sunshine,
And in that moment I saw rags upon
rags
upon rags
falling from the flickering lights.

Greg told me to stop believing in everything.
Greg told me ghosts weren't real,
but he'll see.
I'll ***** him up.

I will not be disturbed by this mother of three.
I will ignore her Cheshire makeup,
her matching white tennis club outfit,
and her wild dreams of a life on Mars.
I will do this because she is what I am not--
she is a ghost,
while I am free.

I see her in the stratos,
I see her in the sky.
I see her in the people,
I see her in my mind.

I am made of crooked a l p h a b e t soup and
I have seen the mother of death and rebirth and
understanding.
I have faced her in her milk cart prison,
and I have dreamed of her shining yesteryear.

For there is more than alphabet s o u p in the can.
There is a flood of m e m o r i e s reactivated by the
breaking of a
mental dam.

Now I see that I am aging swiftly and poorly,
for my years have escaped me,
and have long been forgotten.
Farewell, Stanley Elementary School;
So long, Marblehead Charter;
I remember you in J e w i s h tones
and chlorine-crusted c h a i n l i n k fences.

But a  f r e s h   s u n
s l o w l y   r i s e s, my dear,
and I k n o w
that I m u s t
become
a peacock
once a g a i n.

I
am a ridiculous monster
You
are a ridiculous monster
We
are ridiculous monsters

Moonlight in my dizzy shrapnel mindset
Moonlight in the keyboard on my desk
Moonlight in a stunted willow sapling
Moonlight in my heart and in my head

Sunlight on my secret perfect planet
Sunlight on the strings of my guitar
Sunlight on the lake and on the mountains
Sunlight on the lullabies and cars

Lamplight of my ****** windswept habits
Lamplight of my story and my ways
Lamplight of my laughter when I'm happy
Lamplight of the friends I'll see today

Streetlight with my purpose and my passion
Streetlight with my breakfast and dessert
Streetlight with the nature of ambition
Streetlight with the people that I've hurt

Starlight is the last remaining remnant
Starlight is my beaten Converse kicks
Starlight is my Internet connection
Starlight is the love we shared as kids

Darkness, how it feeds upon my daydreams
Darkness, how it snaps my board in half
Darkness, how it hides the whole **** city
Darkness, how it curses as it laughs

Yesterday I was a shovel,
Today I am a hole.
Tomorrow I will be a vanilla hurricane,
twirling on your merry-go-rounds
and landing like whirlpools
in your November morning coffee.

What's in a ******* day?
Ten days ago, I was in the
backseat of
a 2008 Chrysler Minivan.

One hundred days ago,
I was stumbling and
climbing in
Burlington,
reborn.
What's in a ******* day?

What's in a ******* day?
Three hundred and sixty-five days ago, I was trapped,
homeless and loveless,
in a private, Stepford-studded
sort of way.

What's in a ******* day?
You tell me--
but I've learned that while my streets may change,
the concrete is always the same.

One thousand days ago,
I passed the baton to Richie Sullivan,
thus turning my wild,
private reality
on its dainty little head.

Five thousand days ago, I learned that
Gregory was going to New Zealand
for three hundred and sixty-five days,
give or take a few. But
what's in a ******* day?

What's in a ******* day?
Yesterday I spoke with Janina,
today I did the same,
and tomorrow I will speak with her as well.

Yesterday I did not speak with Conor McCall
or Brian Gagnon
or Julia Ginsburg
though I knew them all once.
I will not speak with them today,
or tomorrow, either.
What's in a ******* day?