Return of the B-Boy.

Maybe I just want to watch the sun rise in Tennessee again.

Maybe the old skate shoes are sad because they're not getting as much wear as they're used to.

Maybe I never liked earbuds, and instead I want those big fat headphones that wrap around your ears, big silver headphones kissing with tongue, underneath stocking cap underneath parka hood.

Maybe I like looking so vulnerable on the sidewalk, pausing to fumble to light a cigarette with gloved hands while traffic roars past, 7 am in the morning.

Maybe the mushrooms have turned my heartbeat to a click track, and I'm walking down Memorial with my hand on my nutsack.

Maybe it's because Kerouac finally means something to me, you know he never did before.

Maybe I just couldn't bear sleeping alone, so I'm knocking on your door like Mama, your b-boy's home.