Choice Words


Pages turn like seasons.
Sages burn like reefers… at times.
Balancing we keep up yet sometimes fall behind.
Behind of what we chase…
Refined is not our taste
We must cleanse our palates and paint.
Paint new habits over follies of old.
Ever horse before carriage…
We must carry our own codes.
Sometimes create them as we go…
Fleet of foot when we should stand still…
Standing still when by all accounts
we should have fallen where the weaker go.
It was all good just a week ago.
So although the sleeper hold is administered
by politicians and ministers,
some seemingly sleep with one eye open.
I’m cool until touched.
Then the fuel just erupts.
I then transcend… we… us… them.
Distinctions and dissension eat dust.
I see trends come and go.
I see friends come and go.
I count none as enemy, despite betrayal or enmity.
I will admit that some tempted me.
But I did not taste or take the bait to such extremes.
I did fluctuate mentally… but balance bore me through.
For honesty I stand thankful.
For now I know what I knew.
I hold myself accountable.
I resort to being responsible.
I call myself on my own B.S..
Basic Simplicity is intricacy implicitly present.
B.S. is a gift to the farmer.
Man your posts all ye fathers.
We need you.
I needed you.
I had other needs that superseded you.
They were met.
The ache of absence remains…
as I grow into realization
that we always have a choice.
I have chosen change.

Daiikiru Akasha Maximillion





First time type direct to page via app.
Bended knee; a stage in the step.
I smiled at the moon.
I think she smiled back.
It was three am this very moon day morning.
Clouds veiled her face a few times between intermittent kisses.
Magically lit the lot where I sit to jot upon my spirit.
It felt almost like day… this reflected light of Sol.
I am smitten.
I am smitten by the  heavenly bodies gracing my consciousness.
Blurting out… Subtlety to the wind…
It seems I would marry the moon.
Constant cycles would have me name her Constance…
and kiss her every night we are free.
Our lovemaking would yield penned progeny on paper…
Or as data…
Or perhaps I should just date her.
Perhaps there is still oat grain to be sown…
prior to oaths being taken…
I’m richer for the cosmic comedy
that the toxic parody I’m tempted to term tragedy
taught me about selling self short or settling
or selling self at all.
The self is to be given of not given up.
Either way my smile now erupts from depths.
I reclaim both warrior, lover, and scholar
from the intellectual and emotional squalor
engendered by those that not so secretly hate themselves.
I love them still.
One day understanding will dawn.
As for me I constantly clean and cultivate heart.
I gave my last shirt…
No sleeves or collar now.
I’m also dating the sea.

Errol Percival Jr.