Propaganda for Hipsters: Go East, Go Easy


Unhappy hipsters at it again.

We stalk.
We walk all together upon vegan eggshells,
unsure of our moves, inept at motives, unalarmed by mediocre hells.
We weave straw into wheat and mix milk with meat,
insecurely endearing ourselves to one another over coffee or beers.
We are the West. We are the Travelers. We are the Pioneers.

We balk.
We attack, en masse, drawing chalk outlines around our impotent, fallen prey.
“They” are remembered for the sacrifice They made to be our Catch of the Day:
we remember They.
Then as the One Who Prays prays,
chalk to chalk, dust to dust, we watch the spring rain wash They away.


What’s this old rag? I was told there would be a surrey with fringe on top.

Armed with papers with letters beginning with “b,” “m,” and “p,”
shielded by advanced degrees
of philosophical knowledge and trends in jargon, er, speech,
we lock up our fixies and sit uncomfortably out of each others’ reach
around a dry fire. At uneven tables in coffee houses and bars,
we explore wine lists, overcome malaise, and fall flatly in love under fluorescent stars.

We are the Commiserators.
Historiographers of the fulfilled enlightenment of the bygone ways of god.
For this we praise our delicate mirage, that espresso-laced trip to the Land of Nod.
We ride on coattails,
but we don’t know whose, and we don’t know how far.
For Christ’s sakes, we don’t even know what coattails are.

In scarfed and hatted herds we walk, we stalk, we ride the slopes, we sketch in chalk, and throw around words.
An affected, contrived assortment of hipsters and nerds;
scholars in ironic tweed; oceans of mustaches; necklaces with birds.
We are a sordid lot
for we know not what we do, or rather, what we do not.
We forgot.

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My darlings, my dear ones, my colleagues, and compadres, go East!
I advocate an upheaval in geography: a complete return to the source.
We must explore the mundane chaos of our exoteric introspections,
whether we be alone upon a withering, winding steppe,
or in a pack upon the prairie meadow, or laid across the shores as shells by the tides,
we shall sniff each other out. So shall our hipster herds abide.

O, Pioneers! My cocky, insecure cohorts in this biohazardous game,
let us return from whence we came:
to the ribald, uncivilized planes we all shared before we got our college nicknames.
In order to relate, to segue, to halt the charade,
we must brave the alleys, which surround our coffee-house façade;
these streets are bleak, as young as god.

Walk! Stalk!
Shake the herd.
Separate succinctly; finding the courage you lack from the bonds of camaraderie
to take off. First saunter. Meander. Find your speed.
Run free;
chase the rivers that lead to the sea.


Namaste, Hipsters.

O, Pioneers! We were Pioneers! We must be Pioneers again!
O, to find the primordial den of the Collective Zen
that exists only when wet and cold, our old-school souls
gather our wheat and hunt our meat
and keep our warm-enough cottages set with just enough seats.

Unfurled, hurled into a dystopic haze of fears,
we navigate the grey haze left behind by number-two pencils and grandma’s tears.
Deprived, endeared, hunted, and seared, we fade into our weeds and comfortably sip our beers, we Pioneers.
We thrash on, debouching, returning, lighting up,
burning ourselves in effigy, for we are the all-seers, the self-freers.
We disembark to paths without ends on bikes without gears, we Pioneers.


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