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creations of the great bum somewhere. imagined, written, read and posted. literary stuff.
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on meditation

i put everything on mute. i squat on the couch. i’m on a meditative pose. i close my eyes. i feel and sense each breath. the inhales. the exhales. the lub-dubs of my heart. i sense all of their irregularities. i wonder if this is normal. i feel my mind pulsating. probably the caffeine. or fatigue. the pose is eerily relaxing. i need more of this, i think. then my mind wanders to the vibrations of the building. to the cars’ wheels and the cars’ horns on the highway. to the sudden breaks and stops as if pedestrians were getting rowdy again. a plane passes by over head dividing the sky. i imagine a child looking out the window. seeing the night lights. seeing the city glimmer below. then my phone vibrates. probably an email or a message. my mind then wanders to work. all the unfinished tasks. all the conversations to be had. i open my eyes. still on the pose, i see a lizard staring at me. it’s probably curious. not sure. or probably some mosquitoes were all over me, and the little bugger wants to gobble them all up. i also stare at it. i sense the fear. my fear. the relaxed state all gone, now my mind’s alert. i hate slimy things. and the lizard has the look of going yolo, taking advantage of me not moving. doing the pose. then slither all over my skin. a minute or two passes. and the lizard goes in the other direction. i breathe again. now, my feet’s all numb. blood not circulating. probably trapped somewhere. damn pipes. i end the meditation. i stand up. and go on.  

on photographs

come on. take that photo. find the angle. the lighting. make sure to capture the blemishes. the pores. the wrinkles. the beauty. the ugliness. the grit. the wear and tear of life. make sure to accentuate those scars. those scars that carry the weight of a million judgments. when you look closely you’ll see a reflection of yourself in those scars, not in the eyes. never the eyes. when you do look in the eyes though, look inside. look for the soul. capture it also. it should be there somewhere. sometimes it hides. try to capture that realness. that genuine beauty. otherwise, it’s just make believe. a soul hiding in the corners that shows you a mask for everyone to see. you see a fake and you’ll never ever be special when you see a fake. catch every strand of hair. every splits. every dyed or undyed. the shine and smooth and silk and shimmer will always astound. take it now. capture it. and at last, when you click and take that pic. in that split of a second flash. never close your eyes. never ever blink.

the darkening

first comes a darkening of the eyes. as if you see red. blood all over. splattered on the floor. the knife’s in your hands. everything else becomes blurry. you’re hungry for something. you can’t really fill it with food. its the butchering. the cutting of the pieces. the joints are everywhere. and all you see is that porcelain skin. the caresses. every little thing. not ants. not gnats. the earrings and the earlobes are all over. and you just can’t stop shaking. you’re hair all matted. sticking to your head. covering the eyes. and you wonder. how to get out. how to walk away. or is it the want for every one to see. to know your monstrosity. you fill the mug with coffee. and read the news. it’s the breakfast of sorts. walk out the door. drive your car. and the thoughts of rage and anger and dark, becomes blurred by the trees and the cars and the birds that you pass by.

the telltale signs of arthritis →


i shudder as i wipe your tear. my hands shake as i stroke your hair. when you rest your head upon my shoulders, my bones cry in disbelief. doubt and resentment cover all of me. and my structure’s crumbling to mediocrity. you share and i tear apart. as i answer back with false opinions, my…

it’s worries not being there that worries me…

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