Autocorrect faux pas

You know it is time to dust up the keyboard and get rid of dead hairs, procreating, when their tangled mess autocorrected “your dimples” to “your nipples”  and landed you in a boatload of trouble that you could have  done without.

Knowing the texture of my days

There is an urge

to feel 

the texture of days

between my fingers

soft, firm, a bit slimy, or just slippery

like grains of sand

and then

after a proper assessment

put them in the bins

marked dark, desolate, normal, or gay

for tomorrow when I call

my horse whisperer

she would ask how 

I have been doing lately and

decide on my pills for upcoming days. 

Existential crisis, the beginning #4

With wrinkly skin

and a feeble mind

the day I crossed 

sixty nine

I wondered about

the grand design.

Is dawn, a beginning, and dusk, an end?

Can dawn and dusk be friends; a continuum; two millipedes, entwined like lovers, caught forever in an embrace, and not be

two opposite poles 

of a day,

what is the difference between them

anyway? 

One east and one west? 

One birth and one death?

 

Did not Buddha say 

opposites are 

one and the same,

two sides

of a single frame.

And yet, I suffer

cradling the notion -

one a beginning,

the other, an end.