My Karl Marx: This is what I look like now

My Karl Marx book sits right next to me: upside down
on a pile of books about the Middle East, Community-Based Theatre, and Medieval culture. To my left sits a cheap silver ashtray filled with remnants of a dirty addiction that makes for the following: yellow teeth, dry skin, and $6.85 a pack. I smoke and twirl to satisfy some need into emptiness. Feist plays in the background, singing some song about her man and the moon. Books close me in, a wooden antique chair kills my back, my glasses are blurry (not my vision)and the damn train passes every 6 minutes. I wonder who missed the train this time. Where are they all going now? This is the den of inequity. This is the place I seldome visit: to drink wine and champagne with friends, talk about love and life, think, write, smoke, watch the garden that isn't mine, listen to the ice cream truck, write love letters, end relationships, play frisky, act impulsively, begin new lovers, cry, laugh, stare into nothing, do mindful exerercies, and finally remember that Marx has dangerous eyes; his isn't a philosophy but a practice.