StarCat/CatStar

The Mobile Proletariat (Polemic)
By Kevin Maus
Hang the one who waits for the revolution. Speak to your brother about it.
I am here to explain .... I am in good company these days. Men of men.
Pathological searchers. Outright lost that are scattered the country over.
Patriots who kneel in the dead grass of motherland scraping in the
smelling muck in disgust and fervor, searching roots. Killers, not by
nature, but at the drop of a hat will have you spitting a fine pitch of blood
and grinders if you say one sorry word against them. As good as men in
Christ as the disciples; missionaries, no—preachers, yes. They leave their
families to dog about the country. Have no family, have no home, just the
Holy Ghost that keeps them at constant odds with the world. My point is
that these are the ones — and I am happy to include myself in their
numbers— to undertake the sacred masterwork of revolution; oh yes, I said
it, you stinkers.
The revolution is the people’s masterwork, masterwork of the nonartist
that makes paltry those of men such as Beethoven or Tolstoy. “The
worker”, as history and bearded crackpots have dubbed him, has been
domesticated: hearth and home is his State, and The State, leaves him this,
with its remedies and comforts; while the trucker, as I’ve said, knows little
of hearth and home, he is “the worker” who has not been “domesticated”.
The game is explained in it of itself, hauling freight of every kind: food,
weapons, fuel and every material creation under the Sun. It could be easily
done to have every metropolis surrounded with a great gleaming shield of
truck trailers counting fourteen deep around an entire city, a thing that
would set you marveling until you realized you had accomplished nothing
in your life. The truck-stops would be our barracks. Trucker communes (I
am uneasy to use the word, cause it calls down right derision, but I must),
would come about and humankind would live the pastoral, playing grabass,
drinking from the fresh water stream, etc., all of that cheery bullshit.
All this coordinated by our friend the CB.
I can imagine the General of such a revolution, paunch and
mustached, the hardest motherfucker out — was an Army Ranger