Well, someone has to smoke the world’s cigarettes,
to leave little ash droppings
to lead us out of the wilderness –
a little nothing, a little boredom,
so we can lean on buildings looking good
while the prophets pray
for the days of fire and fat.

But in the meantime
let’s let the gaps stay open wide;
we’ll ride the ride
of island synapses,
from Park to pot to prairie
or the bouncing line of capital Y’s –
some time to choke,
to bust locks,
to walk naked into the dawn muttering.

Just pretend that this isn’t some dream –
as if we were lobbing real
existential eggs through the windows
of Time magazine
instead of just words, and words,
and tissue paper,
as if we were truly champions of the proletariat,
the Worker’s Vanguard decked in red,
instead of masturbating in each other’s ears.

But the revolution always ends too soon –
even spiders need their sleep,
a little time to forget their dreams –

Still, someone has to smoke the world’s cigarettes,
and I don’t think it’s me.