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armed and dangerous, 20 oz. of hot hot coffee, tablet on lap,
sitting on the deck overlooking the bay, and once again,
unusual for me, I am touched by the sanctity of the serenity
pervading, assuaging, by waves just loud enough to sway to,
the off/on chatter of the early bird's convocation of the morning's
blessing, have survived another night to greet greatly the outlines
of loveliness in the all~of~surroundings, which hacks my brain,
for I am by forty years of habitation more accustomed to a rough and tumble city boy trader, screamer of:
buy/sell/straddle/strangle/crush/****/mercilessness, no quarter,

no mindfulness in me naturally, until nature robs my tools of
denial,  and I smell the sanctity of fresh sheets laid on bed, the
warmed blood, vein coursing, suggesting just listen, listen,
the hot shower water eradicating the prior day's sinfulness,
the highly valued sensations of sensational emptiness, and
words drifting from the surround movie theater of a vista beloved,
coming for to fill and fulfill this always~in~mourning soul by the
overhauling of a crisp, cleansing day break

I, familiar with notions of perpetuity, and at best, conceptual, though
my mind permits a drift to the thoughtfulness that this place, this moment, this performance art  of spectacular breathing of another
dawning day, after thousands upon thousand of its predecessors,
and the possibility, not remote, but not promised, to anyone, just may
occur at least once more, and one must learn contentment from but
that idea, and sip the cooling dregs of coffee, the sounds of human
interference, car door slamming, the heaving breathing of morning joggers, the wind rising, the white caps snapping, precursors and
signs that natural perfection is never permanent, always in transition,
and a whispery smile crosses my cheeks, as a silly thought invades,

nature is so very human~like and yet, immortal…

composed between 6:30 and 8:30 am this day
Wed Aug 20 twenty twenty-five
Silver Beach
Jab
Me
Jute
Me
Still
With
Me
Is
Jiffy
         - Amisha priya
The heat of summer climbs my head,
It shows the things I’ve always said—
My hopes, my faith, the truth I keep,
The parts of me that run so deep.
But the more I speak, the more they hate,
The world turns cold when you’re too straight.
It’s built on lies, behind a smile,
It fears the truth and shuns the trial.

The rainy season makes me sad,
It makes me miss the life I had.
The little drops that touch my face
Feel soft at first, like calm embrace.
But then the clouds grow dark and near,
And bring back thoughts I hate to hear.
The breeze that once would help me cope,
Now pulls away my thread of hope.

When autumn comes and leaves all fall,
I hear them crack with every call.
Each step I take, each gust of wind,
Feels like her voice comes back again.
The dry leaves swirl, like she’s still close,
A memory I miss the most.
It’s when most hearts begin to ache,
And wrap in care that starts to break.

Winter’s the season I love the best,
It brings my tired mind some rest.
No burning sun, no stormy sky,
No falling leaves or reasons why.
It doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t heal,
It simply makes the world stand still.
It’s just a pause, a quiet place,
To wait for someone’s calm embrace.

I don’t hate winter—cold and slow,
My soul feels safe when it’s all snow.
I wish I lived where snowflakes land,
In a wooden house, not made by hand.
Far from the noise, the rush, the game,
Away from rules that feel the same.
This city’s taken all I knew,
My thoughts, my peace, my point of view.
I feel like someone pulls each string—
And I’ve forgotten how to think.
When the Glitch Comes

A glitch—a digital fault or interruption—reveals just how fragile technology truly is.
It is both a trace of a past malfunction and a harbinger of a greater collapse yet to come.
Like ghosts, glitches haunt time: they emerge from the past while pointing toward future breakdowns.
Each digital rupture whispers the same warning:

"This system will fail."

A glitch marks the uncontrollable dimension of the digital world.
A good glitch is that which “lets us feel the beast inside the machine,” disrupting the illusion of seamless visual flow and exposing the system’s raw instability.
In today's technologically complex world, we often struggle to understand the purpose of our own writing/ destiny, especially in code.

This suggests that even the creators of technology can no longer fully grasp the systems they’ve built.

The glitch is the moment this unknowability becomes visible.
Though everything on the surface may appear to function smoothly, unseen processes operate beneath.

                                         beyond our comprehension.

This is not a mere error, but a structural feature of digital systems:

                                     an entanglement of control and randomness.
But the system is neither control nor chaos. only the illusion of both, staged to hide its depths.

Thus, the glitch is not just a mistake; like a ghost, it exposes the invisible, revealing the system’s hidden face and pushing the limits of human understanding.


                   It is spectral in itself and it summons the specters that reside within our machines.

When you become unlabelable, you become the ghost.
And the algorithm (built to sort, tag, and target) can no longer hold you.
Ghosts can’t be deleted. Only felt.

Not visibility, but sabotage.
Not transparency, but disruption.
When we seek to fracture the system’s narrative control, the glitch is our signal.
Modern technology amplifies the power of ghosts.
And the future belongs to them.
Be the glitch in the system.
I was nine or ten.
You said I was far too young.
For a man of twelve.
She seemed like someone who I was looking for my whole life,
But who knew she was like something we call a knife.
Each day I watch her walk with him, a silent scar,
Smiling like moonlight, yet feeling so far.
And here I stay—cut by hope, from just behind the bar.
I woke up before the noise,
breathed with the trees,
walked with the sky.
The sun hadn't yawned yet,
but I had — twice.

Back home, I made coffee
strong enough to slap me awake.
I whispered to my cup,
"Let's be productive today."
It didn’t answer —
but I believed in us.

I sat down with math—
chapter four, page full of promises.
I underlined the heading,
adjusted my pen cap five times,
then sharpened a pencil
I didn’t even need.
Pro-level procrastination unlocked.

Midway through one sad-looking equation,
my phone lit up—
first a comment,
then a reel,
then a cat dancing to lo-fi beats.
Fifteen minutes later,
I knew three dessert recipes
and forgot the formula
I never really knew.

Suddenly, a line hit me—
not from the textbook,
but from somewhere softer.
A poem idea.
Just a line, I thought.
A quick jot.
A harmless verse.

But the line grew limbs,
called in stanzas,
and started demanding metaphors.
So I gave in.
I gave it my quiet,
my hours,
my last sip of cold coffee.

A crow watched me
from the window grill
like it knew
I was failing both maths and time.

And now—
the sun is long gone,
the sky has tucked itself in.
The poem is finished,
polished and breathing.
But that chapter?
Still untouched.
Still waiting.
I wrote this after one of those mornings where I swore I’d be disciplined and dive into math, but a single line of poetry hijacked the whole day. It’s funny how guilt and joy can coexist—guilt for what I didn’t do, joy for what I accidentally created. This poem is both a confession and a small victory.
Memory haunts me
I remember everything
Alzheimer's mocks me
It's terrible for them both. Those who suffer from the disease and those dear to them.
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