a meditation on my pretenses of idealism

we talk of revolutions till our hair turns to dust, till the whiskey can no longer wet our parched throats; we lean excitedly forward plunging elbows into tabletops, jutting feverish foreheads into the chasms between our ideologies and realities, into circles of dialogue and inspiration as our hands fly up in wild gesticulations flinging unseen scraps or romantic ideals to the rafters out the windows to flee or maybe flit back gently drifting to land like lint to be brushed off our shoulders. & when we settle back satisfied into our chairs, drop damp shoulders limp into wooden embraces, silence hangs dense between our exhausted post-satisfaction grins. flickering lights to hide our doubts in the shadows, to bring our stuffy words to fiery life.