Karl Marx in Hell

Westler 7 Max Van Westler Karl Marx in Hell At the depot, a hub-bub as he steps down off The bus, apparently still a bit dazed from his Big let down. But how can he not be inwardly Pleased so many of the old habitues, ideologues, And apparatchiks have turned out to greet The newcomer to his home for the rest of eternity. And as the burden of his suitcase is lovingly lifted From his grip, and someone's hand slaps his shoulder, And someone wraps him in a bear hug and lifts him Into the air, it crosses his mind the infinite And undeniable good of human contact. And it warms To hear words like, "Karl Marx, how wonderful to see You again," or, "Karl Marx, how long has it been?" Or, "Karl Marx, how little you've changed." In fact None can miss how far he's traveled, from what starry Distances fallen down. Bone-thin, he can't Seem to catch his breath, has trouble remembering Anybody's name. Still, they all try their damnedest To comfort and reassure their former comrade; all Crowding into a vintage VW bus with faded spangles And bars, they go sputtering off to what's widely Acknowledged the best mexican restaurant In town. And though the guacamole is bland, rather Ordinary, the salsa surprisingly mild (given the Reputation of the place), what do they care, shooting Tequila until the pink tablecloth is sopping, Everyone all trying to talk at the same time about The crazy occurrences and disturbances they always said They'd laugh at years later, and here it is years Later and here they are laughing: a miracle in a way They've survived their youth, kept in touch, made It this far. And still later, at the friend Of a friend's, where he's welcome until he can find A place of his own, the natives are discussing The advantages of being here as opposed to the other 8 the minnesota review Place: cheaper prices, fewer republicans, better music, Sex. Seems most of the downside has to do with The weather, or rather the lack of it: not too hot Or cold, but constant seasonlessness. Soon he's been Told the best neighborhoods to live in, closest Expresso bars, bookstores—why, Children ofParadise Is playing right around the corner, would you believe? . . . But downcast or dead-tired, Karl Marx isn't listening Anymore. Grizzled head thrown back against the sofa, He stares straight up at the ceiling that flickers With the candle someone has lit. They can tell From those glazed eyes, he's lost in the past, Trying to make sense of it, understand where it all Could have gone so wrong. Soon they snuff out the joint That's been passed around. In the quiet, late evening Traffic noises flood in through the half-open window. Everybody wants to cry, but can't. And this is what Goes on for the rest of time, for all eternity. ...