It seems like I’m a cuckoo in a home
somebody else’s parents built. I mean
my words; I always use my legs; I try
to eke some pleasure out of every day;
I know I’m half-aware when I’m asleep;
I aim to use in full my heart and brain.

I understand there’s two lobes in each brain:
a field for art to frolic and a home
where logic lives, exchanging while we sleep
perceptions that explain what tumults mean.
And maybe it’s our duty every day
to puzzle out the radius, or try.

If means are all, I have to love to try.
Infinity’s a problem for my brain,
but “never end” is easy, as each day
accumulates to decades. I’m at home
with means as all that matter – ethics mean
self-admiration as we slide to sleep.

Although I’m half-aware when I’m asleep
I can’t export my dreams. And though I try
to keep you close, to share and bear and mean
with you, we go alone, unconscious brain
or wakeful mind, at ease at night at home
or moving through the tasks that shape our day.

I can’t afford to waste a single day.
My time’s so dear I’m loath to go to sleep.
I’ll take my stimulation out or home
but stay awake to take it, so I try
to walk aware, engaged, and use my brain
to prise the grand from big and nice from mean.

So take me at my words. I mean no mean
philosophy; I want to make your day.
I challenge you to renovate your brain.
I dare you to resist diurnal sleep.
I sentence you to your own life. I’ll try
for silent wisdom soon, and take it home.

Tonight I mean strategically to sleep,
importing into day the drive to try
with rested brain obtaining passage home.