You thought this would be ground zero,
the birthplace of the upcoming revolution,
but nobody read the emails you sent,
or the magazines you handed out, or
tried to understand the class warfare that
you spoke about so hurriedly, as if there was
not enough time or words to capture it’s gravity.
They only came to drink your beer and eat
your food and when they got bored, they
trashed your house; breaking bottles and chairs,
and ripping down the posters of Che and Marx
and spray painting the walls, and when they
got bored again, they left you alone in the rubble
of your vision, the thoughts of a generation
stained on the walls around you.
Most are angry, some are desperate
and none of them are radical.