To the kids that can hear me:

I hear you.

Another nameless evening comes only to pass, cigarettes piled up in tiny crystal ashtrays,

Coca-Cola/ American biproduct/ downloaded piracy/ cultural piracy/ Microsoft/ Monolo/ Spago/ Beverly Hills// to the West of cultural landmark,

piled up on the desk and burying my work schedule.

And I’m paging through pirated files, reading

Morrissey/Saul Williams/Tori Amos/Dylan/Conor Oberst// in the beats of the drum and the hum of the guitar and that soft whine that filtrates, penetrates, perpetuates,

Excerpts of Chuck Palahniuk novels on Amazon offered up to the gods in the hopes that I’ll purchase, but I only plan to pirate,

Scenes of movies based on a Bret Easton Ellis novel/ Higher Learning/ Dead Poets Society/ School Ties/ American History X/ Finding Forrester// all ripped, all pirated,

And I plan to coalesce – a peaceful, calming coalescing out of illegal activity that’s orchestrated in the hopes of getting out of this house, out of this ‘hood, out of this part of town, out of this city and into the warm belly of gated communities and manicured lawns, moving nowhere fast out West.

And I plan to coalesce in the hopes of whoring myself out for ink, for flashing cameras, for a name, moving nowhere fast out West in my head but slowly regressing toward the East in this middleware void.

If I put less focus on the work, on the word, on the syntax, on the formulation of line after line and grammar and symbolic reference, and I switch the focus to the mememe generation, my visage tattooed and punctured against the latest scene bullshit staple of fashion and cool, my neurosis, my sexuality, I might find myself worthy of MTV airplay.

The clock is flashing 9:11, and we can’t even look at the time without flashing back to September. In the olden days, the golden days, we used to say, “This is our Vietnam.” Now, “This is our 9/11.” And everyone will surely jump on this bandwagon perversion, so I will, too, before it becomes redundant, but I only find it’s too late.

My twin towers are falling – insanity and vanity – and Mr. Orange is in my veins. But who cares which catastrophe I reference to overplay my supposed struggle? I shall put the words to the side, under the bushel, and instead say, “I am a bisexual manic depressive with a history of drug abuse and troubles with authority in school. Buy my book.”

And I plan to coalesce the words I’ve pirated, a collection of banality with a plastic face that covers up the insecurity within the pages. If the story is better than the way in which it’s told, it’s okay. So grab your favorite movie and ravage it for all it's worth.

And I plan to coalesce in the hopes that no one will do the same. Hypocrite is my nickname. And I expect my white pages to fall against your fingers and a handshake extended as a binding contract just because it must be my turn:

Marrit Ingman/ Biz Stone/ Wil Wheaton/ Katie Jones/ Elizabeth Spiers/ Glenn Reynolds

To those who don’t hear me:

I hear you, and you have been used.