[I]nsanity & [I]nsomnia

So, i've taken a small break from the poetry; debate's been eating my time like a fat kid at Cici's... on the way home from atlanta, I managed to write ... something. I'm not sure whether it's poetry, prose, a reflective essay or a story, but shit i've never been big on labels.

without furthe ado:

I have grown terribly dissatisfied with my life, I am not who I used to be – anymore. No, something has happened to me – I feel lost, trapped and ever so fucking alone and I just want everything and everyone to be still still still. I know, I know, I have so much to live for, such a rich fulfilling life ahead of me – the only problem is – I see the future, I see my destiny – as I peer into the crystal ball of modernity, I am disheartened by the direction my boat is drifting.

Highschool, College, a Masters degree then work, work, work – until I’m a useless old fart and can’t tell the difference between living and existing. That’s what this world wants for us all, an anesthetized life – free from pain and strife: we all dream of that same place – whether you call it Oklahoma or your lover’s arms, we’re all looking for a place where everything is predictable and nothing hurts. We sail and cruise and drive through existence looking for a who, a why, a god and a how, but never do we find the answers to our petty questions, we sail and drive and cruise to someone else’s rhythm, in a direction I’m ashamed to call “progress.”

False are the idols of modernity, false are the amenities of a comfortable middle-class existence. We bust our balls to maintain the petty comforts of our lives without realizing that it is ourselves that we are slowly murdering. The house, the cars, the money, the girls – shit I’d trade it all for a taste of the real – a taste of every beautiful flavor life has to offer. But there is some repentance in it all, for I’m afraid although I see beyond the shimmering idols of modernity, I am a weak man. As much as I want escape, as much as I want to live, my weakness leaves me trapped like a butterfly caught in the tarantulas den, or an autumn leaf lost in winter winds – out of place, out of control, and increasingly – out of my fucking mind.

I don’t know what it is about me, or what’s been going on lately – everyone and everything in my life is confusing the fuck out of me, I am coming to what feels like a stand-still in my quest for meaning and I’m afraid I’m falling falling falling into darkness, into nothingness. I’m lonely, confused, and thirsty for the first drop of love, of life, of whatever is to come, but if there’s one thing I do know it is this: I have grown too full for this small cup of existence, I can no longer call this place home and for quite some time I have not been able to recognize these familiar faces - I need change that doesn’t jingle in my pockets.

I am looking for a friend, but surely in all the wrong places – I cannot find it here. This place is cold and all of the color is gone - the land is black and the clouds overhead are gray with the tears of god. But I cope, I live, I fight the good fight; Hoping that somewhere, there is someone in the world as lost confused and meaningless as myself.

as i stop at that
worn old stoplight
at the corner
of nowhere and nothingness
and take a long drag
of that burning red death-stick
ironically called life,
I turn to my left
and then to my right.
then realize this:

I have something in common
with these broken
heartless
fucks
who stop aside me
on the left, or the right
it didn’t really matter
there was no gradient here
at this broken
fucking
stop light

that here,
at eleven thirty
on a Sunday evening
we were all in similar places
in this endless journey
we call life
we were all
sleepy, restless
and miserable
fucking souls
racing our metal extensions
into night
into destruction
into destiny
none of us really expected
to see

tomorrow.

Some racing
to a broken fucking
place that
someone decided to call “home”
hell, it was them -
at some point or the other
but now,
now these people knew
hell, even their deceased mothers knew
that this was just another place
like any other
to rest their broken little
heads, on broken fucking
nights
the ironic part was,
that every night was
broken
we knew nothing of
the happiness of a goodnights sleep

Some were racing to
their end
following an endless road
looking for their checkered flags,
or crystal meth, or some black
tar – anything, really that keep their
hearts going bump through the night
it was really all one in the same;
and they knew it too,
that sooner or later,
they’d be too tired of racing through
these broken streets
wishing, hoping
dreaming
of the night they would hear their
little metal extentions screech
to a final stop
because they knew their hearts would soon follow
and death would dance
to the sound of twisted metal
and broken fucking
bones

Others were racing
to their night job
wishing, hoping
dreaming
that the supervisor wouldn’t
notice he was late
fearing that day
that he would have to turn
to his wife
his children
his parents
and tell them that this was the end
that this was the day
their comfortable lives
came to a screeching fucking halt
and they would be poor,
empty, and oh so fucking
broken
like last Tuesdays garbage
or the newborn waiting in the dumpster
for a mother
someone else’s problem, now
left to face that cold world, alone
and isolated
without a soul in the world
to care, just care
fate wrote death on their
gritty warn palms,
and destiny,
was a bastard.

Me?
frankly, I felt
This corner simply wasn’t enough
I was racing into nowhere
into nothingness
we all were, in a sense.
but me,
I had no destination
I was racing
to the sound of my own heartbeat
until my little metal extention morphed
into the little engine that couldn’t
wishing, hoping
dreaming
that this rock was flat
and I would fall
off the edge of the earth
into nothingness,
Into nowhere,
before that needle hit the red.

But everything
remained the same
we were all running
from something we all knew
at heart,
we could never escape
not even on Nietzsche’s birthday

but surely,
That didn’t stop us
cuz’ that broken old stoplight turned
green
and we put the pedal to the metal
and the sound of
tires burning and
engines roaring
permuted the air
and death
also lingered

we were cold,
and tired,
and broken.
fucking broken
and we were all racing away
from our own
reflections

Never before have I seen
a race
so arrogant and
snotty
as to hold the power
to destroy themselves,
their unborn children
their pets
hell, even rip mother earth
a new one!
and be as bold
as to look god strait in the eye
and promise that this,
this nightmare
was really for
world peace

this was, of course
the biggest joke of the twenty first century:
"technology,
was the solution to
all of mans problems"
we built and built
and built
-- Machines, Factories,
Prisons, Schools,
Trains, Airplanes, Cars
and of course, motors
to run those trains, airplanes and cars.

"Stronger, Faster, More Efficient!"
this was modernity's mantra
growth was no longer an option,
it was a condition of life.
"by whatever means necessary"
we thought,
as we raced to our death beds
sure, the trains were on time
but overnight
we had death camps,
biological warfare
and an arms race.
everyone was finally ready
to fall asleep for the very last time.

Shit,
we can't blame them
how were they supposed to know?
that those motors
would propel trains
with people, or less than people aboard
to their final demise
but nevertheless,
on time.

with the same science
that created that wretched bomb'
we aimed those missles into the sky
and fired
fired fired!
blowing our own savior
right out of that fucking sky
God was dead,
and we had killed him.

what waters could we turn to
to clense our hands
of the sin to end all sins,
the murderers of all murderers.

"what festivals of attonement
would we invent now?"
they called to the heavens,
but no one answered,
so they built offerings to the gods
iPods and Attombombs
Trains and Deathcamps
Cars and Resource Wars
Sex and Sexually Transmitted Diseases
this was our festival
but their holy water remained wine
or crown n' coke for that matter,
for science was their new god
their new idol
and there, that night
in the shadow of their befallen god
everyboddy just wanted to get a little fucked up
because there was no
fucking reason
to live
any other way.

we had already built our own coffins,
and now there was only time for one last puff
of our final death stick
as we drowned ourselves
in the blood
of our new
god.

This world needs more people like us:
Poets,
Writers,
Idealists,
Dreamers, 
Artists,
and Artisans
maybe then, 
we could paint beautiful wars;
with epic beginnings and tragic endings
instead of waging wars
with greedy beginnings
and no endings
at all.

Black, Dark

This is for you,
my dear friend with
two crutches
or four, or a million
for that matter

"at least, at least"
they say,
"this is all that happened!
you could be in a coma
or a vegetable
or dead
or a million pieces!"
(right now)

you hear their comfortable lies
but there's a hint of truth to it
this is all that happened
they do not see, simply can't see
all that you've lost
your independence
your freedom
your sweet ride
that you drove senselessly
into the night
searching for a who, a why,
a god,
and a friend
who was just as lost in lifes torrent
as you were
(or are,
I really don't know the answer.)

Fuck,
that never stopped you though
you didn't want that answer in the first place!
the mistry and misery of life was enough
to satisfy your thirst
for life,
for existential experience.

through the highs and lows,
you wanted it all
"to smoke weed on the goldengate bridge"
"to drive on the wrong side of the road"
your plan, to live life on the edge
"so it goes" you'd say,
laughing in the face of destruction
as you watched the city burn,
you lit a cigarette,
or two.
Captivated by your disasterous charm,
infamous smile, and your
rough palms and plush lips
tainted with smoke
and a love lost.
"you wanted it all,"
I thought
"through the highs, and the
lows."

Unfortunately,
we can't always get what we want
Fate has a poor sense of humor,
but that's how it chose to play it's hand
there's no deed that we may seperate from the doer
no subject from its predicate,
no predicate from it's clause,
no subject from infinite possibilities.
The irony of the matter is,
that you weren't the person
driving on the wrong side of the road
you were just another old joe,
or jane,
or natalie,
for that matter
not knowing what destiny had written
on those gritty warn palms
of yours.

But in your moment of truth
there was not a whisper
much less, laughter
as the truck smashed into your
sweet ride
there was onlyt eh sound of crushing bones
and twisted metal
as the stench of carnage permuted the air
the stench of death, also lingered
thank god, thank heavens
(or the spaghetti monster,
for that matter)
that that wasn't your stench,
your last night,
your final cruise through existence.
your fire burnt strong,
as they lifted your worn body into the ambulance
and ripped off your clothes
on that dark,
December night.

Sadly that is,
that is,
how fate played it's hand
you wanted it all
and your prayers were answered
there's nothing you could have odne differently
nothing that could stop
destiny from taking it's course,
no deed that could be seperated from the doer
no subject from it's predicate.
it was done
now,
now there's simply not time
for "what ifs" and "if onlys"
only you, and your crutches
and a will to fight
that I hope you haven't lost
that spark, that twinkle
in your amber brown eyes
that kept me up to all hours of the night.

I do not understand
I don't
what it means to be you
your crutches, I will never hold
but I do know what it is to have crutches
hopes, dreams and thoughts,
substances.
that we rely on,
and hold closer
than life itself
because it's that
damn
precious.

Sure, it's not fair
"why you, why me
why any of us for that matter?"
because that is how this moment was structured.
there is no subject that can be seperated from it's predicate
no deed from it's doer
no predicate from it's clause.
only you, me,
and millions of other nobodies
clinging to their crutches
fighting for just
one more
breadth.

I don't make very many promises
but I'm a man of my word
If you never know again
how to jump, bike and play
that there will be room
on my picnic blanket
in some park
at the corner of nowhere and nothingness
that we can watch children do
what children do best
and leave the rest to fate.

On winter days,
even at the heart of the gulf of Texas;
Sugar Land, Texas
to be exact
my mother always told me to
stay inside
where it was warm and safe
where the bitter cold,
or the murderers or the rapists
or life
couldn't hurt me.

but I knew better
than to listen to her words,
of caution, of reproach
rather,
she had taught me better.

I am an honest man,
or at least I'd like to think so
I am not ashamed of giving credit
where it is due.

But who wouldn't?
(like to think they were honest men, that is)
the murderers? the rapists?
surely they had mothers too
who had nurtured them
taught them the virtues of an honest man
surely, they were honest men too
at least
some of
the time

this was this,
and that was that
until one day
I met a man with a burley black mustache
the most honest of men, perhaps
who showed me what a lie I was living!
he knew nothing of this "honesty"
i spoke of
but seemingly knew all there was to know about men;
and women I suppose -
this man, and his black burley mustache
showed me this was that
and this, was
nothing at all.

there are some that take pleasure in being
what they think, is an "honest man"
spending their entire lives
inside
next to their mothers,
where the cold or the rapists
or the murderers
or life
can't hurt them.
and they are honest men, too.
for what do they know?
(that with every day, every step
every breath of their comfortable
petty lives, they are lying)

To themselves.

And this profound conclusion
was made possible by that man
with the burley black mustache
whom I met on the philosophy shelf
at a bookstore no one has ever heard of
at the corner of nowhere
and nothingness.
It took a man of real honesty
to show me
that my only mother was fate
and it was my destiny to remain
forever by her side -
no matter where I went,
what I did
and what women I slept with.

Now I see
my mother taught me
how to be an honest man

Sure, I steal sometimes
and lie even more often
and swear wilder than the
rowdiest of cowboys-turned sailors
I am an honest man,
(to myself, at least)

Some men, who claim to be honest.
Also claim we need more compassion
more love, more humanity
more Jesus
and less aboritions
but in my honest opinion,
all this world really needs
is a few more honest men
with
burley
black
mustaches

It has been 7 suns
Since I last felt your warm embrace
And eight
Eight, oh so fucking
Cold
Nights
Your gentle hands
Exposed a world, I thought
I would never see
But now it’s
Gone
Gone
Gone
And I am once again lost
In the torrent of life
Like an autumn leaf tossing in winter winds
Out of place
And out of control.
Still,
I would not have it any other way;
Cupid stabbed my heart,
And now,
I must have my revenge
Please,
My creator
My destroyer
If you love me;
at all,
Please don’t tell me now.

Sir,
I call you a lot of things
Some good
And some bad
You are my provider – yes
You brought me into this world
And that’s a fact that sadly,
I cannot ignore
Whether on purpose, or by accident
Is a subject up for debate
But something you could never be,
Or will be,
Is my father.
No matter who’s name is on my birthcertificate
Or whatever last name I bear.
Sure, you are not only to blame,
It takes two to bear a grudge
But as long as you expect me
To live in your shadow;
To be your reflection –
I’m sorry
There’s simply no room for you here
I have simply grown too full for your cup
Of rum and coke
Or black label and sprite
From which you drank yourself blind
--To my accomplishments;
My growth.


But I know this is your home,
Your castle,
And like you always said
“we do things (your) way around here”
So please,
Do not be offended
As I take my leave,
My leap
My chance – at life
To see for myself whether or not
The grass is really greener on the other side
Don’t get me wrong
You will always be a part of me
The part that I’m always running from
Your shadow
Your reflection
Your smell and your touch
I hope, I pray
To a god I don’t believe in
I can be a better father
Than you
Ever
Were

no one starts out life

knowing it is going to be meaningless

it all starts with big plans,

larger than life.

curing diseases, being firemen

falling in love, living freely

you know -- dreams,

ambition, aspirations maybe;

The thing is, dreams stay exactly what they are;

and what they always will be :

Dreams.

And one dreary night we look in the mirror;

42, alone and oh so fucking

broken and realize

that we can't stand the reflection

staring back at us.

one by one,

sometimes two by two,

we leave this cruel world

just as we entered it

lonely,

miserable,

and crying our fucking lungs out.

We exchanged a look
as she troddled up the incline
of the top floor
of a parking garage
in some suburban neighborhood,
no different from the rest of 'em

she had jet black hair,
and plump white cheeks.
Her name was Helen,
I assumed so at least, as she looked
as all helens do, I figured
with piercing blue eyes
in which I could only see my own reflection
and pale milky skin
which was smoother than sandpaper, at the very least

Although we only exchanged but that one brief moment
between shock and awe;
that another human soul was here,
sitting on the ledge
on the seventh floor of a parking garage
overlooking the entire city
on a friday night
sculpting words
into expressions
the trademark of a poet

But this moment had to end,
as all moments do, I suppose
as she quietly creeked
to the other end of that lot
sat atop her throne, and lit a cigarette
or two
and our words danced,
although we never exchanged a word

As the city clock struck twelve
and the pidgens startled into the midnight sky
I think we both shared something
like ordered chaos
or beautiful sorrow
in my dance with destiny,
I tasted fate.

For a poet,
there is no hell like
writers block

the impossibility of
expressing the thoughts
that linger within
that hold each moment hostage
that torture - is like no other

Perhaps this is the quiet
before the storm
the last breath before destruction
or perhaps I just need to breath
...or fart

what is a knight without armor
or a souljer without a gun
or a doctor without a stethascope
or a businessman without a business
or a poet without a thought
about what to say
or how to say it
I wish I forgot my pen,
... at least then I'd have an excuse

Today, I am useless.

We are far apart, you and I
but we are united by these words
which bleed from me on this here paper
and you, so beautifully read
and interpret
and wonder...
"what was this guy smoking?"
the truth is, if there ever was such a thing
that we poets focus too much on ourselves
and not enough on our subjects
there's a hint of narcessism in this whole mess
but who better to clean it up?
so
this one's for you,
whether your young and wrestless
or saturated by life's beauty
Kudos,
for pronouncing these written words
and giving meaning
to otherwise lifeless vessles
you are every poets greatest wish,
or perhaps -- our worst nightmare.

Creativity is a virtue like no other
the mother of love
and the father of meaningful existence
but it is a virtue for which too few have
the heart
For some, it is easier to follow-
to sit in the back-seat of life's carriage
making passive comentary on a life-
-they were too weak to live.
Me?
I hunger for life's underbelly
I drive on an empty gas-tank
and fly kites only in thunder storms
with every action, I write my own destiny
following any road without a who
or a why
or a fucking care in the world
Some people drive to their destinations,
I drive to loose myself,
without any direction.
why?
becuase there's beauty in the struggle.

An artist I am, of words and ideas
my colors are boundless experiences,
unconscious desires,
potential for meaning and lack of direction.
No, I am nothing like the others.
With a stroke of honesty,
I paint with my thoughts, conversations
and actions, of course.
What do I care about paintings of mountains or canions?
or people who have long since deceased
or triangles and squares and circles
and such
I am an artisan of the twenty first century,
with nonsense, I fight the good fight
my canvas is life, and I'm painting my own mosaic

Greetings,

<3

Shikhar

12/1/9