The sea called and I came with bells on. The trees fall and there’s no one to hear them. I still yell timber in my nature. I’m a blue ox for babes at times. It lasts just long enough for me to write it out. No tall tales. Not a fan of Paul. They never met. Sometimes that is what failed jaded lovers wish. I watch so-called stars feign a lover’s kiss. I then wonder how much of a hand mimicry of such has on the mockery of love that passes for some. Passing is to die. Passion in decline works the lower chest to straining and burning and unrequited yearnings to hasten the worlds turning to the point where that one comes to their senses. Hmmm… Has anyone tried bathing with soap in the open ocean?
Serve. We are here to serve. Serve whom? Earth’s womb… Amnesiac amniotic sac… We swim blind under alien stars and cheese wheel moon. Hanging over our heads lies, doom… Fantastic fjords… Odin’s fiery eye in the sky… How dare we? How dare we not dare… …to soar in rightful places, or uplift our faces just so light graces us with sensations of inclusiveness? Not worlds apart from the resonance that mirrors the rhythms of our hearts… Pound for pound; beat for beat… Sound for sound; too deep for sleep… I am awareness lying in these sheets, rehashing mental repast, relieved at times upon returning to realized reality, thankful that regret resides not in retrospect perpetually, but fades away with the dawn. This nights mischief leaves not a misfit. No shoe horn necessary… Shackle shoes return to the ethers along with prospective inevitable bunions. Learning again that I am not mind… this collection and OS. I am user not usee. Do you see. Matters not. For my eyes only… The term lonely, often used loosely… I am ever in great company. I take stock in gratitude in the rising. I can’t stop. I’m a happy dude. Internally enterprising, investing in self conquest, ingesting the best concepts… Digesting metabolically swift… Divesting myself of all the bullshit… and horseshit of worship of overabundance of warships… Might makes right in law books and spurious scriptures… The “right” take life feeding furious predilections, fueled by desensitization and trust in united nations. Flames fanned by flapping flags… Governed like scooters so as not to soar, relegated to under-roofers and closers of doors… Yet, when real reality knocks, stay still losing composure. Are you choral component or co-composer? Hmmm… Who am I? what am I? By what paradigm do I plot my lines? Do I trust what I’m given or trust what I find in places it is said one shouldn’t look for answers for they’re all in the back of the book… But those are the answers to their questions not mine. Who are they anyway, for what they say to have any weight, to outbalance what I attain in a meditative state… of mind… in the freedom of a dance or a strenuous climb, that dashes limitations to dust in the distance. The drums of a far off powwow wafting in to windows as the scent of resistance, hinting at the power of perpetual persistence . in service of the wisdom of the eternal witness… One Love. Daiikiru Akasha Maximillion
Stillwater i sit at the bar sipping still waters once writ from the heart warming me like a parka easy at the start i guarantee it gets harder for some seldom seen change like buffalo nickels fem-dom breeds pain fights with thrown vittles and flying pots and pans grasped by once lovingly extended hands welcoming now they’re pelting him no mention of the heavy words laden with resentment tears the lynchpin fears that finish him returns diminishing silenced and grimacing laser eyes imaging realizing i’m piddling on something so sizzling like a sun blazed man hole credit is cancelled angst is ample pants are trampled in the mad dash for what rings true but is hurtful in such vehement tones and seems to herald even more inclement woes resulting in unarmed war with two indigent foes bereft of the best of times once shared that oneness and synchronicity when two of them paired firstly- now thirsty even as i sip now as still as those waters is the response to the lip for truth is truth though sometimes a bitter pill and one must walk in the shoes that one fills don’t put off by putting off and rankle at lowered regard but still the water in eyes such fires hopefully greener grasses will sprout from Errol Percival Jr.
Imprinted with the great design, I dare not resign myself to any relegation cast by another, or even I. Three letters spell sky… Not my limit… I choose none. I choose love. Mary J. Vibes. Rhythm brews time, spiraling cycles like honey and cinnamon in the porridge. The tea kettle whistles and I am admonished… by steam. Is anger thusly nullified, by not being the kettle but the hearer of the shrill tone? I remember… The turn… The swift shift from love to eternally pissed. I risked it… gave love till I depleted reserve and regard. Unguarded of heart… No regret. I return right to that. The grill brick realigns the shine… The griddle is in readiness… The very world is at stake. All lies in balance. That’s the bottom line. Where is the top line? Matter of fact, where is the top? Where does it stop? Buck the system… Buck it good… Bucket listing… should of, could of, would… Will. No! Am. I mourn my own way… All henceforth is tribute. Gratitude is the utility of the tools forged in familial fire… The ancestors dance around it still. I heed the call… There are goosebumps I’m thrilled. I too dance. My spirit leaps in my throat and through my finger tips. I type on black and white keys… two three… two three… Eighty-eight… Upright infinity times eleven… Rhymes with seven… Numerology mid step sixteen… Take a full first step… A thousand ensue, in inertia, enthused… Strength of spirit in thews.. That “retard” strength… Desperate mothers lifting vehicles. Placebo supplements: bootstrap pinnacles. Tell me what is impossible… You may receive my ridicule… if I made time for such. Fleeting… on the beach a fleet of feet… A featured feat… Fetal floating… Amniotic sea. All I see is sky. In water, I can fly.
Ok, so now we wash and dry, hopelessly leaving out the lies, for they couldn’t possibly stand. I’m shifting back to unabashed aplomb. I move how I choose… I am just awash with calm. I can’t be “phased” or played, or raised by praise. I am essence, rising is my nature. I need no assistance. Go ahead, have a conniption. I give a good got damn. Shouts to uncle 13… This is a rebirthing. Away with the uncertain… I draw back the curtain. No veils are needed. My speed is unimpeded… Yet, I dash not… Appreciation… Nothing against the stones… Against the grain I rise… no strain. Tree not wood… Free not hood… See as I should… Essentially build… The inner bears the outer well… Magical… without a spell… Logical…(not quite) but out of hell… At the cusp of a spurt of growth like a gust of wind that lifts the clothes and shows what one did not really wish to see… Yet in seeing such one discovers what’s preferred. This dance that lacks choreography, yet seems mapped and planned like it’s God apostrophe “s”… These steps yield effects, in this space reflecting a process… Cliché calls for grace. But it fits. So it’s fate… or fated so to speak… Sure to reap benefits tantamount to genesis unraveling before your eyes… A scroll to train ojos upon… Bold as it pertains to wrong, and just retribution… Oh my… my whole life touched by such, yet I am uncrushed… enough to roll away the stone and say, “ I won’t die here!” “I will fully live!” Errol Percival Jr. – Daiikiru