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The View from the Afternoon




Four o' clock sharp
and a familiar fragrance
looms in the air as 
i sit atop a parking garage
that overlooks this 
blasphemous town
of plastic MILFs and 
petty middle-class comforts. 
but despite their mediocrity, 
I wouldn't change a thing.
for on this summer eve, 
I bask in the warm embrace
of that great gig in the sky
and surf through the arid winds 
as I enjoy the view from the afternoon. 

I feel today a warm comfort 
I have long yearned for
it seems at last the icy winds
of winter have parted
and dark skies 
are replaced with infinite possibilities
no longer does the dragon roar
"THOU SHALT!" 
for I have tamed my beast
now, the fierce lion
becomes a child.
free to create his own values
his own thousand truths,
by dawn
and the courage to destroy them
by dusk. 

High-Noon is upon us! 
and we stand before
a sea of meaninglessness. 
"who will part this sea?" 
"to what skies will we look for guidance!?" 
the pious fools will cry!
but the only sound will be lafter
as being continues it's endless dance
across endless skies
and I will be here,
still,
sparking up the evening's first smoke
as I enjoy the view from the afternoon.


A Gift that Comes and Goes




It seems like today,
everyone's all gung-ho about
formulas: 
there are formula's to make you better
formula's to fuck you up
formulas for success, 
formula's for failure,
formulas for calculating how supremely
overweight you really are, 
and even formulas to calculate how much 
the government is allowed to steal from you, 
and of course, how much you can steal 
from the government. 

With all these numbers, 
and everyone ejaculating to efficiency
it is not surprising that everyone goes
ape-shit whenever things 
do not go 
"according to plan" 

Despite persistant attempts to 
"crack the code"
One thing remains 
that these schemers  haven't
found the formula for:
this thing?

writing; 
an art for only
patient souls 
that aren't afraid to
stop and 
live a little.

this world is full of 
Constipated Writers 
who are so concerned with
their "formulas" and finding
their "BIG STORY!" 
that they are afraid to be true
to themselves 
on the blank white sheet
that lays before them. 
the irony of the matter is,
of course that,
everybody is 
starving for
new shit. 

writing is a gift that is 
only for those patient
enough to await it's return
and time wasted for
all of those materialistic
fucks, looking for
something to keep 
for themselves
no, 
writing is something
to be shared. 

if you do not write
because it is vital 
to your survival,
do something else. 

if words do not bleed from
your pen in a torrent that 
makes your writing hand ache 
with the toils of beauty...
you're better off publishing. 

if you're writing for 
somebody else, 
don't do it. 

for some time now, I have felt
that I had "lost my mojo"...
but today I learn that 
creativity strikes
when we least
expect 
it.








A New Hope




Despite what people look like
on the outside, 
inside...
everyone's got their own
neurotic devil 
or I do, at least
which is something
I know,
so I'll start with the facts: 


FACT: life's a 
bitch without
a god in the sky
to blame for your
every imperfection. 

but maybe that's because
we're always looking for
excuses:
if not god, then 
that black cat or
the bergouise
or the government 
or the biggest 
baddest
Other
that overdetermines
our every 
move. 

FACT: we are thrown
into  this be-shitted world
without a who, or a why
or a even a morsel 
of significance.

there is no "being" 
with a capital B
we start with 
nothingness and upon
that Tabula Rasa, 
shape ourselves in
a constant cycle of 
becoming. 
That is to say, 
"existence precedes essence." 

Fact: each moment 
is it's own decisive
fold. 

You and I are no 
more than the collective
sum of our own actions 
and experiences. 
Every moment we are 
faced with the grave 
burden of "choice"
and every decision
holds a unique
opportunity cost
that will decide the
rest of our lives. 

some, 
more than
others. 

I call this 
hope, 
Humanity:
my existential
neurosis.

subjectivity
must be the
starting
point.






out of winter, came spring




On this cold
spring Texas
day, I realize 
this: 
"The world is full 
of glorious
surprises" 

And I don't mean 
this, in the banal 
sense 
of a newborn baby
or a "second chance" at life, 
no
I'm talking more about:
dirty words in alphabet soup
or getting a pink slip for
"not subbordinating
to authority" 
ora winter day in a 
summer-stained week
whose frigid winds
lifts you back,
back, back. 
to a time of innocence
it's briskly touch 
re-teaches the lessons
you forgot: 
"You and I, we 
live for the struggle
the revolution is born out of
imminent resistance 
to a system that
has long-commodified
our desires
yes, 
we are sustained 
by our opposite."

Ask yourself:
what is an anarchist
without the state? 
what is a rebel
without a cause? 
what is an anti-capitalist
without capitalism? 

Happy?
far from it
our collectivist identity
in the political order
is formed via a strategy
of resistance 
to a given social order
or yet another faction. 

but what does this mean
for you and I? 
that we live for the struggle
that there is beauty 
in the feeling 
of overcoming 
obstacles
and loving every 
minute of it

there is a kernel of truth
even within a fluid
subjectivity. 
'nuff said.  

Thus Spake Shikhar



Some environmentalists will tell you otherwise, 

but the world actually enjoys taking a 
heaping hot shit on us
(metaphysically speaking, of course)
but certainly the environment 
the sickly anesthetized coordinates
that each and everyone 
of us are locked in to 
Days come, and Nights go
and surely the fool with the banjo 
still plays. 
but it feels we are all marching
to someone else's rhythm. 
to where? 
I don't really know
or have any desire to know
the answer 
but one thing is for certain
this boat is drifting 
in a direction i am 
ashamed to call
progress. 

Our search for truth
prompted the sin
to end all sins
surely the universe breathed
a new breath 
as we pointed our missiles
into the air
and shot our old god
the fuck out of that sky 
and danced a joyous dance
in the pool of his blood
brave we were, 
but that was then...

Now, 
we suffer the depths
of nothingness,
and deathly touch
of nihilism
and everybody just
wants to get 
a little
fucked up

So when the world takes a 
shit, a heaping 
steaming shit on us
we arbitrarily search 
for a who?, a why?
begging our savior in the sky
for answers to questions 
who's only true answer
a mirror can reveal
we search for a scapegoat and a sin
more importantly 
a substance: 
white junk, green junk, brown junk or crystal junk
it's all the same
a means of escaping 
a world we're sure 
we despise 
but can we really blame 
ourselves? 
after all
we're only
"human, all too human" 

Humanity needs 
someone to justify 
it's existence. 
a creator of meaning 
and a destroyer of values
with skepticism and brute honesty
to fight the good fight

my thoughts?
who better 
than a
poet! 


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