For Hipsters who
feel left out of the conversation,
Millennials who pinpoint summer of 2010
as the best time of their lives,
and Gen-Zers who frequent spots
like the Brooklyn Mirage...
How weird a thing youth is
and why we’re constantly dissecting it
and trying to reengineer the highlights
both emotionally and physically.
Being in your 40’s sometimes comes with this distorted memory of the past,
where everything in your 20’s was better, newer, more exciting, less jaded...
but that’s not really the truth and I think this poem revisits
a lot of what makes those years feel so good but also reexamines why
they’re equally as difficult, full of shit, and confusing.
Dwelling on the dreamy and sordid histories
feel left out of the conversation,
Millennials who pinpoint summer of 2010
as the best time of their lives,
and Gen-Zers who frequent spots
like the Brooklyn Mirage...
How weird a thing youth is
and why we’re constantly dissecting it
and trying to reengineer the highlights
both emotionally and physically.
Being in your 40’s sometimes comes with this distorted memory of the past,
where everything in your 20’s was better, newer, more exciting, less jaded...
but that’s not really the truth and I think this poem revisits
a lot of what makes those years feel so good but also reexamines why
they’re equally as difficult, full of shit, and confusing.
Dwelling on the dreamy and sordid histories
is the musical equivalent of the sentimental iPhone videos
in the “For You” section of your camera roll that always manage
to spring up during moments of intense vulnerability,
but the artist (me) does not want to be remembered
solely for his successes in failure.
Rather hyperspecific laugh-out-loud moments
like the snapshot of listening to The Head and The Heart
at a Halal cart
to relationship autopsies where the dead don't die,
all in my heart-on-sleeve storytelling,
imbued with a keen sense of alt-folk euphoria,
in the “For You” section of your camera roll that always manage
to spring up during moments of intense vulnerability,
but the artist (me) does not want to be remembered
solely for his successes in failure.
Rather hyperspecific laugh-out-loud moments
like the snapshot of listening to The Head and The Heart
at a Halal cart
to relationship autopsies where the dead don't die,
all in my heart-on-sleeve storytelling,
imbued with a keen sense of alt-folk euphoria,
a not-so-subtle desperation,
and of course the requisite existential crisis
that leads directly to this forever poem.