a poem about hipsters drinking tea

go where your humansong is a contagion of conversation that flutters in through iron
        windows and snatches the dusty, defenestrated voices
go where unmuttered comments unstuttered stitch together dresses scratch together
        stolen pens and coffee grounds are sleeping quickly
go to perpetuate your stereotypes all in one night—study and get stoned and eat three
        bowls of Easy Mac I haven't named my bowl yet, it's three a.m. on the quad and the
        swing is creaking
go where the Iliad bestows kisses on Libra who once copied great novels verbatim onto     
        seminar tables and made chai for me last Wednesday evening
go and decorate Blithewood with saxophone song and end each sentence with another form
        of art, tossing yourself into the river if it's not art,
put on your teal cardigan and go to the darkroom that's still not ready, forget your key
        and surrender to the darker room inside yourself and don't give a fuck
go into a film and let technology glitch you into the aura of that boy and the memory
        of that weekend we kept meeting up and making out everywhere
go where the swirls in the carpet reach into the past and bring before you at a
        celestial game show green lights ceaselessly being born on fine mornings
go and get a blood test while holding your mother's hand you're not afraid of the
        needle but instead you're afraid she'll find out how much you've been smoking
go deeper into your paranoid nature, they're still laughing at you always attacking
        you, and when you go inside yourself they don't notice that you're gone and leave
        you there to feast on your own bones
go where the computer science majors reflect the sexually explicit poetry of the
        cosmos in their Macbook Pro glasses
go where the lines on your blank notebook page life go when they are released and blue
        ink clouds cast lightning bolts onto pointed cursive memories
go to Boston to visit your high school friends where they spend their Ambien nights
        playing Quidditch with homeless men out on the Common
go and get on top of your shit, make a schedule and scrawl it on your back and save a
        picture of it on your iPhone, I still need to meet you
go eat microwaved Indian food you can't pronounce, you got drunk with them so you're
        one of them now, I'm about to go to New York fucking City don't stop me please
        only
go and occupy Zuccotti Park and join the revolution painting protest signs with damp
        and wrinkled fingers while October passes
you haven't left yet, you've lost yourself in something higher and you haven't slept
        but look now you're the star of a video that went viral and all you did was allow
        yourself to feel your thoughts
come with me, go on this river cruise and look at all the pretty lights with me, I was
        thirteen and I had my first kiss here watching the stars lapse time in Brooklyn
        Heights
go onto the porch where they have fudge and tea waiting for whomever the blustering
        wind of fate brings in, where they consult the oracle of fallen tree branches and
        blush in the chill of autumn depression
go to get cold and visit the buildings, form a circle under oak trees and read to the
        blond boys with angular smiles
go where accidental futurists speak of transformative incidents and fights and
        highlights are printed synesthetically under the herald headline of beautiful gay
        nonsense











before you leave, get to know the mythos of the place you live in, before you leave it
go to the place where you were born, not into your body but into your spirit,
go to the place you can never name, and tell me when you find it.