#67, October 16, 2005

Traversing Clio

The Nieman Marxist

The Nieman Marxist

One day Metro-,

the next day

Retro-.

But all he knew

was that he was sexual.

That was all that was left

of the left,

and rightly so,

he thought.

The revolution had brought him

here—

the entrance to the department,

not of labor

but of consumption—

the store.

His long wavy hair

and beard

were to be shorn

in accordance with some

queer eye

or other.

His little red bible

was to be replaced

with laptop and latte,

the accoutrements of success

and sex excess,

if he should choose these

as his radical

new approach

to self.

His shoes

would be nothing but leather—

Italian—

to remember the immigrants by;

his bike,

nothing but Indian,

to remind him of the plight

of the Native American;

his clothes

only 100 percent cotton,

to commemorate the slaves

who had passed on

before his personal

revolution.

The State had withered away

in his mind;

the dictatorship

of the proletariat,

had broken its eggs,

and they were now

Benedictine amongst

all the choice dishes

that he could select

from every part

of every nation

and every animal

therein.

Civil Society was still uncivil,

but it always would be,

and he could enjoy it more

without the guilt associated

with believing he could do

something,

anything,

to change it.

The individual was all,

and he needed to smell good,

pluck his brows,

look neat and smart,

and the world would seem

transformed.