Quantcast

‘Howl’ at the Internet

By Megan Carpentier
Tuesday, January 29, 2013 16:22 EDT
google plus icon
["Woman With Nice Screaming Expression" on Shutterstock]
 
  • Print Friendly and PDF
  • Email this page

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by punditry, screeching uninformed oranged,
dragging themselves through the comment threads at dawn looking for an anger fix,
tousle-headed hipsters burning for the modern firmament’s blessing from a celeb’s Retweet in the machinery of night,
who per-post fees and jammies and hollow-eyed and high sat up boozing in the supernatural darkness of Brooklyn walk-ups floating across the tops of bodegas contemplating book deals,
who bared their brains to Arianna for a byline and saw mythical book agents staggering on brownstone roofs illuminated,
who passed through news websites with radiant cool eyes hallucinating conspiracies and Centrist tragedies among the architects of war,
who were expelled from Daily Kos for crazy and publishing obscene odes on the diaries of the skulkers,
who cowered in not-secret listserves in underwear, burning their friends in e-effigy and listening to the Daily Show through the speakers,
who got busted as their Sprezzaturas returning to their nemeses’ sites with rafts of defenses meant for their “fans,”
who ate shit in Twitter wars or ranted on someone else’s Facebook page, left Twitter, or purgatoried their mind on Pinterest or Tumblr night after night
with charts, with reblogs, with pictures of Boehner’s tan, Obama with children, poorly-rendered memes and endless cats,
filtered Instagrams of restaurant dinners and family pets with the mind leaping between poles of policy and popularity, illuminating none of the less public world of life in between,
Peyote solitudes of smart phone dinners, backyard party-ending unfinshed bombastry, wine-drunkeness watching MSNBC, front-paged posts of unsupportable speculation of other’s blinkered aggregation, sun and moon and Macbooks humming in the roaring coffee shops of Broooklyn, ashcan rantings and the kind reblog light of the more-famous,
who chained themselves to Netbooks for the endless live Tweeting from Manning to the holy SOTU on Adderall until the noise of the Matthews and wee Russert brought them down twitching, carpal-tunneled and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the wash of “Lockup,”
who sank all night in the white light of MacAir floated out and Tweeted through greasy breakfast in a desolate Dennys listening to the cracks of the waitresses waiting for tips,
who talked continuously seventy hours from conference room to plenary to microphone to sponsored reception to dinner to the Netroots afterparty
a lost battalion of unsung geniuses jumping before microphones, into conversations, in book-signing lines, on Twitter, into prominence
yacketayakking screaming punditing citing facts and context and anecdotes and apologism and shocks of politicians who don’t deliver
whole intellects disgorged in Twitter battles in total recall for seven days and nights with unseen eyes, meat for their followers cast into the ether,
who vanished into nowhere group blogs and WordPress leaving a trail of tip jars and abandoned Adsense accounts
suffering pageview counts and posting minimums and fact-checking from readers under hangovers in a new bleak open office plan,
who wandered around and around at noon on the Internet wondering what to blog and then went, leaving no broken hearts,
who lit arguments in dive bars and Reddit and other blogs driving by peaceful discussions to make a point in grandfather night,
who studied Jane Hamsher Ezra Klein of the Post SEO technique and rage-click headlines because the Internet would have to vibrate at their feet when they got a break,
who loned it through Balloon Juice and Little Green Footballs seeking visionary liberal-libertarians who were visionary liberal-libertarians,
who thought they were only mad when Obamabots gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped into Twitter dialogues with the other interlopers of the listserves on the impulse of winter midnight loneliness smalltown boredom,
who lounged drunken and lonesome through Tweetdeck seeking politics or sexts or fights, and followed the brilliant Economist to converse about America and modernity, a hopeless task, and so took leave to Facebook.

Read Allen Ginsberg’s original “Howl”.

["Woman With Nice Screaming Expression" on Shutterstock]

Megan Carpentier
Megan Carpentier is the executive editor of Raw Story. She previously served as an associate editor at Talking Points Memo; the editor of news and politics at Air America; an editor at Jezebel.com; and an associate editor at Wonkette. Her published works include pieces for the Washington Post, the Washington Independent, Ms Magazine, RH Reality Check, the Women's Media Center, On the Issues, the New York Press, Bitch and Women's eNews.
 
 
 
 
By commenting, you agree to our terms of service
and to abide by our commenting policy.
 
Google+