contemplating capitalism

Cohen in my veins.

Halsey on my skin and Lana on my brain.

Bowie is on my back and I’m currently reading Didion talk about Joan Baez while Joan plays on my phone.

My mother has cooked me eggs and caters to my current affliction with silent judgment but I don’t hold it against her.

This moment is silent and the static that usually plays in my mind is dull and I’m contemplating capitalism.

A silent value that’s placed one my being, a discounted price over my head no less.

In this country every product, good and service is calculated based on the acceleration and benefit it provides our society.

My contribution as of late seems to be my words that no one reads, a distorted intuition and loyalty.

Feeling misunderstood is a sensation that lingers and I can romanticize it just long enough to seem “deep,” but it’s starting to leave a stench.

Its in my hair and my clothes and my studio.

So I wash my hair and take off my clothes and lie in the sun and pick at the food in front of me.

Stringing together vowels and consonants in my journal working through something I can’t remember now but was important at the time I’m sure.

I try to make them make sense and feign intelligence while my mental disposition leaves me on the “discount” shelf.

God, aren’t you so sick of this mental bs?

But this is America, and I’m either expired, out of season or damaged goods.

Doesn’t really matter.

I’m sure someone will come and pick me off the shelf and take me home.