Across the Twitterverse

I'll grow my hair long now;

stop shaving,

sleep in and drink coffee

late into the morning.

I'll wear flannels

over big belt buckles

and Levi's jeans,

and engineer's boots.

I'll listen to the music of now,

the songs of escape,

the death of the suburbs,

the death of the city,

the slow death of hope itself.

I'll listen to the music of then,

The Byrds, Dylan and the Dead,

grow my hair long,

stop shaving, and wonder

at these ten years.

The music of joy,

of glittering lakes

and trees alive

and starscapes,

the swelling endless now.

I'm done with the lie;

done with no hope

and no future,

the tomorrow they promised us.

We dream of escape,

of Laurel Canyon hipsters

with headbands

and people parties.

We dream of Greenpoint,

Williamsburgh, Park Slope,

and Prospect Heights,

of a local food revolution.

We hope.

We pray that

the social network

will save us

from ourselves.

But there is no way forward

that does not sacrifice

the fullness of this life;

we, of a type,

imagined,

and sold--

tribe by tribe,

until the idea

seems our own.