the end of history
(for Francis Fukuyama)
i go nowhere. i lounge, empty as 17 million homes. i ponder
my discontent. change of clothes at three o’clock. red shirt.
barefoot. i brandish my thoughts at the sky, as if threatening
and like tossing a tennis ball await some return, some fortune
to come bouncing back to me. nothing arrives.
i contemplate lies. if the highest state of human achievement is indecision
it will never lie between monopoly and collapse. we will at best pause
to backslide once or twice. we can’t remain on the brink of fire.
we can’t maintain these industries of disease. we can’t keep people
crouching on the stoops of vacant houses, begging for shelter.
i go nowhere. the sun gets hot and now i wear shorts.
the academies are closing—they call it the end of history.
i’ve lived less than twenty years and already i see a second
recession squawking towards my lifetime. yet they affront
that this, this is the end of history.