I had dreams that I ran out of money. 

I had dreams that the woman I was sleeping with left me for Paris. 

I thought I was the second son of a senator a few years back, when the fruit was cheap, like I was in on some kind of deal. The ones you don’t see the poor offered. The clerk gives you a side-eye and nods for you to come forth, from the back of the line.  In some lawless America where people are born into something – and get to keep it. 

But then I wrote to the editor. In dreams of chasing fame and craving likeness from my peers. 

Being rotten and poor like the rest of them, junked on the populous, addicted to stardom. I decided to write to him like he owed me something. With no fear in my integrity to publish great work for the mad, skinny, and mentally ill. Like some disguised medicine tricking the sick to get better, then sick again. 

Harsh truth, sick truth is – The poor and bastardly I want to touch and hold like Jesus Christ would rather be dead. They’ll beat giant war drums when it all gets too bad, never heading a subtle warning downwards. Thus you have these radical types who rally bums and rats around like a circus, because everything around them is burned and gone. Anyone could get mad at that. 

Anyone with a voice could observe that. 

Communists brain dump on the idea that rallying homeless eaters and beggars could be rational, 

I assure you. That is wackjob.

So why write to a stupid trash person who beats women or a dirty subway-fareman. They who crave this equality to the rich, yet will never picket a day to save his life? Women who work retail and then throw the life they've been given away to Fridays under disco light. 

Why?

Because without publication or likeness, I am nothing.