Class is not what separates us.
We are severed by the ability to hope.
Why else should some live in dreams and others in nightmares?
Surely we are not playing dice with our lives
although it must seem so to an observer.
They would look at me and say,
“How coarse! He sleeps on a floor,
he spends his money on drugs and sleeping pills and coffee,
he does not even keep his knife sharp.”
And they are not wrong, but they ignore the elemental truth and pain of it,
the books that course through my veins like septic blood,
the songs cascading fresh from choirs of fallen seraphim.
We are all pure here, in the shadow of the moon.
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