An Open Love Letter

The greatest hustler we will ever know Is wishful thinking For something holy. The deal on the table never really changes. It has long grown old And curdled. But we all take it as new. And How can I find my balance on the legal apparatuses Of a rat eat rat city Which will always take the form’ Of a moneyed home. Those of us who honed our craft Have become exhibits in museums of all our spent years isolated while the moneyed children beautiful in their designer skin and expensive shoes. But their souls were left behind On the cutting floor somewhere Where the rats The ones mentioned before are free to collect all scattered things For their unseen nests. That is the price of advertising: To plant your heart under the floor boards Like just another roach Another lost Or discarded thing all To avoid the pain Knowing what it is To turn into just another house cat Peering out the same window As yesterday Knowing you will never truly be part of the world below Only living just behind Drawn shades and Dark clubs. And me? I continue to wait for you To return from desperation’s unforgiving sea.