Grateful More for the Socialism Than the Champagne

A poem about knowing my side and my sins

One Hundred Days of Gratitude. Eighteen.

When the revolution comes my cool cat radical comrades and the bombs burst like little bubbles in a fancy glass.

When the working (without earning) act and we all get moved to one big class outgrow our animal tribes, creeds, and caste.

And I get dragged in front of an equally drunk judge for the rich kid college, I went to or wearing too much gold or drinking wine that’s too old (all of which will be perfectly fair accusations)

Let it be known how at home I am in a cheap dive bar.

Let them hear how I can mumble the talk and limp the walk. I’ll learn.

Go ahead and take a head or two or ten.

I’ll earn I understand and agree, with the guillotine whole bleeding heartedly just a little soft for real war or real work kind of the worst kind of ally but still, have the audacity to see me on your side.

I’m game. Paint my hide red or black or black and red with a diagonal line and my collar true blue

Have me shine shoes. I love shoes.

Here, how about this— We’ll socialist fraternal kiss and I’ll show you the way to all the private museums art galleries, distilleries, and wine cellars in the big cities so you have the means to seize some good times too. I know you want to.

You can keep me around as a sort of clown. I can do a great impression of a capitalist (As you’ve already seen) or hell take my hands turn my writing into your own personal-state-sanctioned propaganda machine.

Comrades and killers of kings and queens when the revolution comes in real life and not just my dreams

Remember that I’m just a soft spoiled drunk writer. (who’s also on your team)