life before wartime in poetry

You have to understand
moonshine was the original craft booze.
Banjos are everywhere now.
The end-game of American hipsterism
is the state of being liberal hillbillies at best.
In the worse cases, being trust-fund redbecks.
The suspenders.
The precious over-tended-to beards.
The flannel, the crisp clean Going To Agway on Friday night flannel,
not the self-consciously thrift-store flannels of my generation.
The trucker hats with the logos of actual trucking companies.
Soon hipsters will come up here to live cheap.
I look forward to people in Mumford & Sons shirts
riding tractors ironically down Route Five.
A sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.
A sufficiently advanced hipster is indistinguishable from a guy on Duck Dynasty.
Except that the hipster allows his wife to vote, I suppose.
Vote for the Green Party candidate with no chance of winning but still.
But still.
There isn’t anything more organic than an actual farm.
The two sides of America have spread out so far
they’ve come back around and they’re touching again.
I need to get back to the cities and enjoy them while I can
before they’ve replaced all the beautiful skyscrapers with beet farms.
Get in on the ground floor now while you can
before they rip out the floor and
all that’s left is the ground.

I dunno, I hate the dirt.
Worms have sex in it.
Let me enjoy buildings until they’re gone.