Above my ego’s head crystals grasp each other ends, holding on what their brother’s hands and descend into the world like a family tree their family tree: a chandelier.
Next to the single page of paper where my pencil draws whatever spirals into my head lives a glass of sauvignon blanc, it tastes oaky when it first kisses your tongue but then it becomes sharp- like a liquid that burns your throat to numb your soul: sharp the way a drinker likes it.
And my eyes leave the ripped page from a strangers notebook and appreciatively scorns its surroundings: more and more chandeliers, and plastic trees, and marble tables holding shrimp cocktails and glasses of expensive wine, and people underneath fur coats and leather jackets,
and windows that allow you to see the capital of capitalism: a population of buildings stapled with dreams and disaster.
The capital of capitalism, the capital of my table, the marble table the sheet of paper I write on now sleeps in; he looks at me with his unforgiving eyes so powerful so strong, so mysterious, so precious, so tragic so manic- one buck: what a lucky kid finds on the corner of the street or the beginning of a manic empire of illusions.
He looks at me and third eyes my ego making me miss him, reminding me that each bite I take and each gulp I drink will make his unbidden scales swim from my pocket into my bill: a cycle of unwanted desires.
He is light, but is able to hold the entirety of this room, of these lives; like a fish, his untouched ends swim through sickness and health: a marriage to the capital of capitalism that overlooks consciousness.
He’s scary holding him makes me feel dependently powerful, but losing him makes me restless: human.
He looks at me and his anatomy punctures my soul, binding it to a maze that has no beginning and one end: everything.
The capital of Capitalism.