From Amy Shearn, Humorist
When the tattoos creep
Past the sleeve line to knuckles,
Time to quit retail.
My bike frame tangles
With yours on the curb outside
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
It remains so cold
In the space between my Vans
And footless leggings
In the dirty bar,
At midnight, we forgo Pabst.
Coke drifts like new snow.
I'm rolling my eyes
At your Brooklyn Heights brownstone.
iPod: Wolfmother
Unicorn tote bag
Holds metal LPs and—shhh—
LSAT study sheets
You agree: Billburg
Too full of hipsters. We ride!
Art bikes towards Bushwick!
From Chip Harlan, Rock Star
it's my secret shame—
My love for 70's disco?
Not so ironic...
Cab into the 'Hat
L train is busted again
Cab back to the 'Hood
My blue collar job
paid for these 40s, homeboy!
Sunglasses at night
Sea of PBR
Throw a rock, hit an artist
Fish in a barrel
OMG I just
Saw David Cross at Warsaw
Checking out my moves
My hipster girlfriend
Like my Silver Jews albums
Japanese Import
From Becky Cole, Hiputy
Snowy hipsters hoop
I'm the only one who
Is not in a band
From Sarah Lefton, Frisky Friscan
Burning Man tweakers
Keep your raves out of my town
We need your parking
From Patrick Mortensen, the Illustrious
I know Atari
She knows only Nintendo
Generation gap
From Theo Hummer, Poet Delaureate
I have a beer gut
How, then, will I catch her eye?
Indie rock haircut
Super Mario:
Its dulcet music soothes me
It's on my iPod
From Ann Buechner, Artful Lass
Why is P.B.R.
five bucks at this shitty dive?
What, no foam cozy?
Escape to Billburg
Young Artists in threadbare tees:
silent, hungry screams
O, you thrift store lads
I thrill at your skinny pants!
Artfully mussed hair
The fashion love child
of Karen O. and Paul Banks
wears a blue lame suit
I love you, pomade
for that sexy bedhead look
though I bathe daily
Only blazer-clad
Huddled like bees, our hands hold
hand-rolled cigarettes
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