We built this city. This is our indie empire. A culture cultivated On Bob Dylan records, Cafe Americano, nose piercings, And wrist tattoos. This is hipster Byzantium; Fumed by cheap Mediterranean food, Fouls cigarettes and dank weed.
We live for these summer nights Around the fire, At rogue pubs with light beers And delighted spirits. Blues bands in the coffee shops, Folk bands at the stage, Aspiring guitarists on the sidewalk. Even the wannabe club scene- Has originality. Wreaking of old sushi, And bad choices.
This is to the kids wearing crystals. The men with their mighty beards. And the girls with dreadlocks. To the guys wearing Affliction shirts And the girls in short skirts and tight dresses. For my niggas in snapbacks and hipster glasses.
To the mature people who “hate hipsters”.
For the artists, musicians, scientists and poets.
For anyone rocking a beanie in the summer. For the DJs and rappers with 12’s in the trunk. For the men and women home on leave.
This is to the superheroes on bad trips.
To anyone who has been hit by a car on their bike. To the students with no direction. And the cooks who sneak out back for a smoke. For the immigrants and exchange-students. For anyone driving a Subaru or F-150. For the landscapers and construction workers in the hot sun. For the pizza guy on Saturday night. For the old man in overalls with his walking stick. For everyone who got towed because they said “fuck it I’m parking”. For fraternity and sorority brotherhood.
For long discussion on feminist archetypes. For protesting war, government or nothing. For leaving tags on mailboxes and under bridges.
For smoking blunts by the river.
This is an ode to everyone and everything here. To the people who are nothing more than themselves. To every tree in this forest.
To the unmistakable beauty in the design.
To all of my friends and the few of my enemies.
I am a spider and this is my perfectly spun web.