If there be a hipster among us, let him be the first to cast stones.
So I bought a shirt that says Brooklyn on it while I was in Brooklyn.
The story behind where I left my other shirt is what's important.
May I continue to dance naked with the drag queens of Bushwick, tired in their faces and humble in their loins.
I am a stanza in the song of life.
This is not Gaga.
My eyes open as the cracking of quail eggs.
I see the elegance in so many glasses accumulating on a table: coffee mug, water glass, Bloody Mary Collins, Champagne flute, whiskey thimble.
This is a timpani devotedly to be wished.
This is music I understand implicitly.
My body is a temple ... in Chichen Itza.
Weathered and dilapidated, yet intriguing to the brethren that make a pilgrimage to it every weekend as it moves up and down 8th Avenue.
My howl will be heard in the belly of Brooklyn as I scream at the theater geeks of Hell's Kitchen.
Karaoke is a means to an end to get Japanese businessmen to cut deals.
Calm down, queen.
You are not getting signed for a weak rendition of Pokerface you performed for a bunch of PBR-swilling hipsters on a Wednesday in Midtown.
Our time will come.
It will be a Thursday.
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