the hipster apocalypse

when the world ends,

there will be no vintage merlot

or aged cheddar cracked from

great waxed wheels

american spirits will become currency

-also accepted, coins pressed from empty pabst cans

and when funds run low, 

the only violence in the new world order

will be caused by a collective and universal

nic-fit

when the world ends, and the sun

is blotted from the sky

flannel will be repurposed to it's

orignal function

and beards will be required for much more than

to be, in some tired way, ironic.

the radio static will signal

every hour, on the hour

to anyone still out there, go North to Portland

we've got microbrews and moustache wax,

enough to go around

and from the great urban capitals, first to fall,

will come hordes of youths in plaid

kicking the rubble of their crumbled brownstones

and cursing a lack of wi-fi

when the world ends, there will be no

tumbles, flicks, or tweets

the hobbies previously used to buffer brew-pub

conversations

bee keeping, organic gardening, bicycle repair

will acquire sudden and monumental importance

and when the great migration from once-gentrified neighborhoods

commences, and the bearded, booted army

floods the forest on fixed-gears

we had better pray for clear bike-lanes

and someone waiting at the end of the road

with a camera

because even still, there is no journey worth making

unless someone is recording

and even though the world is done and we have been reduced to 

our most primitive state

they will still need something to blog about.

home, and the many definitions

i can still smell blood in the room your mama bore you

soaked into the wood panelling and flowered sheets

i want to lick the walls, but hold steady

fearing splinters, and the heavy choke of iron

at dinner, across the table, you drain glasses of wine

and watch birds fly low through the valley

while your mother laughs, teeth all too white, 

telling stories of your childhood I was never meant to hear

when we are in bed we peel the stickers from the ceiling that you

stuck there as a boy

and try to paste them to each other so that we, too

will glow like stars

but the backs are dusty and they crumble in our hands

like all your mountain relics, tucked away and left to rot

there are no houses for miles

only craggy rock and pine trees 

fanned out against the sky and bending 

with nostalgic weight, as if the branches could

arc down low enough for you to reach,

and catapult you to someplace newer, 

where your knees are less grass stained and

your father's more proud and 

you have something to show for your years

i am homesick for traffic lights, blaring car horns

hours spent pensively smoking on the fire escape,

a night barely dimmer than day

but we cannot leave, we are urged towards third helpings

you pour another glass of wine

i try not to cry

and all the while, mama laughs and laughs and laughs