#17 Me and Baby Brother

I have 1 brother, Eric. Eric's been in prison for 3 years and he'll be there for 13 more. That sucks! My brother is my truest friend. He is my secret keeper. He is one of the most important people in my life and I love him. Not being able to see him or talk to him or hang out with him and just be brotherly is the sorest spot in my life. There is nothing more that I want than for E to be free, but I know that won't happen until I'm 45 and he's 40. Being separated from my brother doesn't lessen the love that we have for each other. Our separation is a lesson in what love and brotherhood really are.



I'm an emotional and vocal person. My feelings are usually readable, and if they aren't I'm quick to share. Sometimes I talk just to hear my own voice. Eric is the opposite. He doesn't waste too many words and talks when he has something to say. You have to know him to know how he feels because there is no guarantee he'll tell you. Those differences have always made our relationship strong. Before he got locked up I'd rant and rave, bitch and spit about whatever was on my mind at the time. I'd fuss at Eric b/c he's my brother and regardless of my blabbing he always stayed calm and kept a smile waiting on the edges of his mouth. Regardless of my tantrum he always knew what I meant and how to take my shit. Best believe we'd argue and fight and all the things that brothers do, but we havealways been there for each other. We still are, regardless of his incarceration. Eric knows me, I know him and we take care of each other even now.

I'm thinking about this and writing it down because through the walls, the distance and his lack of freedom, my brother still supports me. We haven't talked on the phone in months but we write each other. Not as frequently as either one of us prefers but we both procrastinate about writing letters. I think we would and should write more, but picking up the pen to write a letter is the starkest reminder of where he is and that he won't be home for more than a decade. The only reason we don't talk on the phone is b/c we used to talk so regularly that my phonebill skyrocketed and I cut it off. The letter I got from E, a couple of days ago shows how tigtly wrapped both of us are.

I was sitting in my apartment feeling down about several things. My rent got hiked, I had no money, I was more than a little lonely and my head was spinning. I was thinking about how was I going to make my life work without capital and the answers I was feeding myself weren't cutting it anymore. I felt like giving up and just going to find a different job that would lift me out of my personal quagmire. I was having a personal pity party and then something told me to go get my mail. I went and I was rewarded with a letter form E.

E was talking about the things that were going on in the prision. He left his job in diatary because other inmates wanted to use him to hustle. (My brother tells me that working in a prison dietary center-read kitchen- can be an inside track to money) He doesn't want to be involved in any hustle in the pen because hustling is what got him there in the first place. Even though he's dodging bullets and temtation in prison the tone of the letter wasn't about anything negative. Instead he used his time and ink looking forward to the future. He asked about the magazine and how he could contribute writing and he asked about the details of my life I'd told him about in previous letters. Throughout the letter there were admonishments toward me to keep my head up, stay focused and carry out my plans. There was no whining, no feeling sorry for himself, no blame and none of the begging and finger pointing one might expect from the imprisoned. With every sentence my brother affirmed that he may be in prison, but prison will never be in him. He was upbeat in spite of circumstances. That is manhood, personhood and humanity at it's best. That's my brother!



Eric's letters are always uplifting because he is an uplifting person. Being in prison can't be a cakewalk but Eric is walking the path because that's where his journey took him. Was it an avoidable situation--of course, but that doesn't matter. What does matter is that he has met that situation with grace, strength and hope. While I have used much of the time and space for this blog to complain, whine or voice my dissatisfaction with my situation, my brother has a real situation to deal with. All of my fears have come to the surface and I'm navigating through them but compared with what Eric has to face daily my problems are miniscule. The bumps in my road are just that--bumps. Eric faces a too real wall standing in the way of his freedom and that hasn't stopped him from living, wishing and forward thinking. What lessons he teaches without even trying.

I hope to honor my brother by not complaining so much and living more. Thanks E.

#16 Why I Write part 2: Purgatory

I went to a catholic elementary school and I always wondered what the fuck purgatory was. Now, at 32, I understand purgatory because I live there. Caught between heaven and hell, I exist in suspension. I feel both the upward pull of angels and demons dragging me down. Whether or not I am saved or damned depends upon my choices. No, I don't want to continually fixate on the difficulties in my life because I believe that whatever you focus on becomes larger. I have enough hardship and I don’t need any extra, but my life is my life and right now I'm looking at what's fucked up.



I did what I was supposed to. I made good grades. I don't have a police record. I went to and graduated from an accredited university. I pledged a prestigious fraternity. I served in the military. I love my mother. I've selflessly helped people. But have also been cavalier with money. I haven't always planned for the future. I've survived day to day and now my days are cold and more than a little lonely. I have $5 and some change to my name. That's not mentioning the $7 and change that I have in the bank that I can't get to. I have a quarter tank of gas and 13 more days in the month. By all accounts-I'm fucked and the hold the devil has on me seems to be getting stronger. It feels like the pavement of purgatory is slanted and slippery, and I'm sliding south.

That’s only half of the truth. I also know that falling will only happen if I let go of hope and surrender. I've never been good at surrendering when my back is against a wall. I have always found a way to fight. I haven't always won but I always took swings at the enemy--even when I was losing. Victory depends on perspective and I do know this. Even though I slip on the slope, I’m still climbing. I own my own magazine. It's mine and even if it fails I know how to start another one. I have writers that are writing for free because I asked them to and they believe in the magazine. The website being developed for the magazine is being done for far less than it should cost because a web designer heard me speak and offered the services of his company. I know that I walked into a poetry slam last week and won. I know I just met a guitarist that makes my words sound fantastic because he approaches playing just like I approach poetry. I met him because I chose to help my daddy when I really didn't want to. I didn't think I'd get any benefit from helping Pops, but I did. That's why I still cling to my dreams and continue to approach life with an open heart; even though my heart is repeatedly ripped out of my chest and flayed on the spit of indifference and coldness for it's own sake. There are still blessings and a reason to look toward heaven.

I've thought about suicide before. Never seriously enough to make plans. I've just let the thought of ceasing to exist flutter through my mind long enough to let myself know that nothing is bad enough to make me stop living. I'm not willing to not see what a new day may bring. It always gets better---ALWAYS. It always will get better because I refuse to stop. It is in my moments of despair that I have learned the most. It has been during the times of my worst trial and hardship that I surprise myself and make it better, just by hanging on. The act of straightening my back and focusing on the reality that I want my life to be helps me to know that I will get there. I know that if I continue I will break through. When I do it will be because I was able to survive, and mediate the bad times. Taking responsibility for my life makes it truly my life. If I don't I give my life over to everything that wants to see it destroyed.

Despair is easy. Wallowing in self-pity is easy. Stopping is easy. I have never understood easy. It doesn't compute for me. Nothing in the passed decade has been easy. I don't even expect ease, or gratitude or appreciation anymore. I won't say that I haven’t received all three at some time or another. I will say that they have come far and few in between. So I don't write, or spit poetry, or work with kids or endure indifference because of what anyone wants. I do those things because of what I want. There is so much that I want out of life. So many places that I want to see and so many things I want to do that I can't stop or compromise my integrity for less than what I know I deserve. It's just that remembering that I deserve the best gets hard when the bills come due and leave my account in the negative. I know that I have the strength to do what I must do to get what and where I want to get. That takes strength.



That strength comes from understanding that I am not alone. I'm not the only one in purgatory. There are a lot of us. I just tend to be louder and shout my woes,hopes and triumphs in ways that aren't the norm. I write. A pen and a pad or a keyboard and a screen keep me sane. They help me hold to my center and continue when things seem to be crumbling. My voice is valid. What I say and what I think about matter, even when no one is listening but God. If I struggle for the rest of my life and never get noticed I will leave this, my writings, as my testament. I am alive. Through joy, sorrow, triumph and defeat my struggle is a reflection of all of us who struggle in silence. So when the way is made I know it will be made because I refuse to settle for the abyss of life in purgatory. I've been to hell and escaped more than once. Even now, I feel the devil stalking me and waiting for me to falter. I refuse to. I will not get caught up in the struggle, give up and give in to oblivion. Too many people do. I hold on to hope.

I feel like I'm writing for those lost souls who gave up and gave in to the world. There are so many people that settle, give up their dreams and never live before they die. They think that death is being in a box and being planted 6 feet deep. Too many people can't dream longer than 5 years after they get out of high school. The world closes in and starts to demand things. The bills, the job, the kids, the money(or lack of), the car and more than anything else, keeping up the appearance of living lost dreams and doing what we think people will admire keep us in purgatory’s prison. People struggling to meet those demands don't realize how precious life really is. Then there they are, the walking dead. Zombies caught in a matrix that doesn't let them truly taste the juices of their lives. They are dead long before the first clump of dirt drops on their coffins and don't even know it. They still have dreams but those dreams are stillborn because they don't honor or pursue them. At best they just spin their wheels. Television and intoxication are easier than scratching their way up a vertical slope toward what they know their lives should be. They settle for being hollow eyes and fat bodies behind Wal-Mart shopping carts buying microwavable food in bulk. Their dreams become ether because life doesn't seem to allow for dreaming.

I write what I write because I have had the same hollow eyes so I know what they see. I just refused to accept that vision. I refused to let go of the dream. I've held it until it became something I could sink canine teeth into and shake into being. So I write for them because they won't or can't bear to. I look at the mess of life and write what I see. Hell is hot and heaven is hard but purgatory is both. The only way out is to dream and then work.

Spoken Word #2 FRUSTRATED WISDOM

This is one of my favorite pieces. Enjoy!

#15 C.R.E.A.M

Piss poor planning equals piss poor performance. That sums up the difference between success and failure. Looking at all of my triumphs and defeats I can see that it holds true in every aspect of my life. From business to romance to everything in between, I have been successful when I have had a plan and executed. I have failed when I didn't plan. Of course there are exceptions, but the rule is generally true. If I have succeeded without planning it has been because I had some kind of advantage that I was able to exploit. When I have planned and failed it has been because of unforeseen, unplanned or unaccounted for factors. The plan wasn't good enough. At this point in my life I have to take the lessons I have learned from defeat and triumph and use them to expand myself, my life and my ambitions. By all necessary means.

Life is strategic and tactical warfare. Short term and long term planning are what make the difference in how far we go. We are all masters of the tactical short term planning that gets us through day to day. What people need is to be as proficient at long term strategic planning and implementation of life. I know this sounds heartless--and it is. To truly do well in life we have to look at it dispassionately and make the hard choices. Emotions never leave us and they shouldn't. However, emotions cannot be the guide for daily decisions. If we lead with the emotions we leave out the intellect, which makes and executes our plans. It also doesn't take the spirit into account leaving us without that guide. For me, today, I'll be looking more dispassionately at things, making appropriate plans and following through.



The first step is getting my money right. We live in America and in America, regardless of what political party is in power, cash rules! Withouth money or access to it life is a bitch. NO-I'm not saying that money is the most important thing but if you don't have any in America you are powerless. I can hear the choruses of those who disagree but I'd ask them a direct question: "Is existing and maintaining in America easier with or without money?"

It would be great to live in a world where people didn't use money. A place where people provide for everyone and live in perpetual peace would be utopia. But utopia doesn't exist. Machievelli said, and paraphrase, --"It is a mistake to operate as if we lived in the world we wish existed, we must deal with the world as it is. Money is important. Actually it is essential to our existance. So why not get it?

I believe that I have a lot to do in my life. I have a lot of people to touch and a lot to accomplish. But I'm not Jesus, or Buddha or any other selfless prophet. I'm a man, a simple human being, and I like having money in my pocket more than I like being broke. Broke is a bitch with teeth and she's bitten me on several occasions. But she hasn't broken me or pumped enough venom into my system to paralyze me or make me believe that she belongs in my life. She doesn't scare me either. I'm familiar enough with her to know she needs to go. So a big part of my current objectives center around getting her out of my life-permanently.

It would be great to win the lottery, or have a long lost uncle give me millions. But I don't play lotto and my uncles have there own money problems. It's all up to me. I have the talent, the drive and the ambition to pull myself up. All of us do.

#14 An Observation About Blogs

Blogging is fun! I truly do enjoy writing down my thoughts, poems and ideas for everyone (or maybe no one) to see. A week after I began blogging I bought a book about it and that has been very helpful. I've started looking at a lot of blogs as well. Blogs come in every type of stripe. There are as many types of blogs as there are people blogging. One of the more interesting blogs I've found in my wonderings is called "The Diary of an Affair". In it this woman talks about her relationship with a married man and the reasons she stays in it. Wild--absolutly wild. Another notable is called "Negro Please", which is chock full of information about the bloggers life and interests. It was the first "black" blog I saw and I was happy not to be alone. There are millions of blogs and I'll review them periodically but not now.

The first blog I ever looked at is entitled "MoorishGirl". It is supertight. Looking at it let's you know all of the things that can be done with this kind of format. But for every blog like MoorishGirl there are 10,000 shitty ones. As I venture off into the world of blogging I refuse to be one of the shitty ones. As I learn things will change and develop. I already have audio on this site and I'm working on video. Within the next couple of months this whole blog will be stunning. Mark my words and try to keep up.

#13 Can I Live?

Life is more than just work., or at least it should be. Life should be the challenge and triumph of mountain climbing. The world tells us to not worry about the mountain just work hard and it'll all work out. That's a lie, but I bought it, just like most people bought it. I started working during my junior year in high school after I turned 16. I started at college dining hall but by the time I was a senior I had another job. I started working at a movie theater. I never quit the 1st job, I just kept both of them. Since then I've worked hard but it never seemed to work out. I kept at least 2 jobs throughout college. I even had 2 jobs while I was pledging my fraternity (I kept a 3.1 gpa as well). I had 4 jobs once and I've never been scared of hard work. What I've discovered after all that work was that I wasn't getting anything I wanted except for a little money. And even though I thought that was the point, I found out that all those jobs were killing my spirit.
After I left the army and got on my feet I went from job to job making ends meet and surviving day to day. I didn't think about it at the time but all I was doing was surviving.



I got so caught up in survival mode that I forgot that survival is a human instinct that shouldn't be something we think about. Humans should be concerned with thriving. I couldn't see the forest for the trees. All I could see right after leaving the military was making my car note and finding a place to stay (Both of which presented problems but that's another story). What I didn't realize at the time was that although I never stopped dreaming, I stopped streatching and trying to achieve. I was so used to working that going to work became a purpose in and of itself. I didn't save shit either. As money came in--it went out and even though I was young I can't blame my irresponsibility on immaturity. I think that I was trying to fade into nothing and die. Not death in the physical sense, but I know that I wanted to disappear. The easiest way to do that is by just going to work and surviving.

I'm no longer in the early spring of my life. I am in mid-summer and it's hot outside. Surviving is no longer sufficient. It's time to thrive, it's time to climb the mountain. The difference is a change in focus, attitude and action. This is true for anyone who wants to change their lives.

I spent years just focused on getting by. The result was that I got by. I didn't get ahead. I didn't get over the hump. I didn't think about thriving or growing my life, so I didn't do either one. That's the lesson I've been learning. Life becomes what we focus on. I dreamed of all kinds of shit while I was in survival mode. Cars, homes, money and fame were the subjects of some of my favorite dreams. When I was done dreaming though, I went back to work and got about the business of survival. Now that I understand that survival will take care of itself(so to speak) I am focusing on broadening my life and thriving. As I change my focus I see things in my life changing and I am being pushed (sometimes dragged) out of my comfort zone. The state of controlled discomfort for the purpose of improving is the essence of a fulfilling life. Can I Live? I intend to do so for the rest of my time here, on earth. I'll be more than just a human being. I'll be a human be-ing

#12 Forward by Faith

I'm not a religious guy at all. I haven't attended a church service since 2001. By Christian standards I'm probably headed to hell with a pair of gasoline draws on. I drink, I smoke, I've fornication-and enjoyed it, I've been contentious and stubborn, I'm can be selfish and I really do like having money(that is when I have it), in short by any standard of the word I am a sinner. There, I've said it, but I'm in the same boat, God knows, as the rest of the world. We're all wrong. I mean no harm and I trust the judgment of the universe to dole out whatever I deserve when my life here is over but I don't live my life according to the strictures of any religion. I claim no organization of faith nor do I feel compelled to believe the claims of any preacher, priest, pastor or any other so-called representative of God on Earth. I'm not compelled to disbelieve or dismiss what church folks say either. I respect peoples' views and leave it at that.

What I'm saying is that I'm not working to get into heaven. I'm not working to get into hell either. I'm just working to do what my soul says is correct. I believe that there is existence after this life. I believe that their is an organizing intelligence or supreme being. And I believe that everyone on this planet has a purpose. I think if I follow that inner inclination I can't go wrong--if I'm really listening. It's complex and I'm sure I'll revisit the subject but the short version is that I want to do what is right (at least most of the time) not because of judgment and consequence but because it's right and I know it's right. What good would I really be doing if I was tallying my positives and negatives and laying odds on a trip through the pearly gates? That's bogus.
Faith exists independently of religion and I follow faith.

All of that may sound Zen or Buddhist or zenbuddhist, and I have been learning about Bubbhism lately, but that has nothing to do with my views on religion. My view has been shaped by my life. Organized religion has never been my favorite thing. I went to St. James, a catholic elementary school, and as a result had enough religious tradition rammed down my throat to gag on it. We went to mass every day. During Lent we'd do the stations of the cross every day. It was very regimented but I enjoyed my time in catholic school. Being told indirectly that not being baptized insured I'd be b-b-q'ed in hell scared me but time on the playground put that fear far in the back of my mind.

My grandmother was a southern baptist and when she took me to church it was understood that if I decided to "act a fool" she'd be god's avenging angel and my ass would pay the cost. But it was hard not to laugh when I watched my Grandfather asleep in the choir behind the preacher, waking up only to stand and sing. GranDaddy slept with his mouth open and I never understood how he could lean so far over in his chair and not fall over.

My mother started going to church after divorcing my father. She's not really a church community person either even though she is very spiritual so our attendance was always scattered. I didn't mind because going to a black Baptist church is an all day affair and god knows my tween and later teen brain didn't want to be stuck in church for 3-4 hours every Sunday. What mother did do was pray openly and often. She wasn't a holy roller that forced me and my brother to spend hours on our knees in mock supplication to the image of a savior. She wasn't loud or boisterous with prayer but I always knew when she was talking to god. Through that quiet faith she never complained to us or bitched about what wasn't possible, like so many of today's parent. My mother just let us know everything would be ok. Although she didn't say it often, she demonstrated the idea that God didn't bring us this far to drop us off--so let's just push forward. Through her faith I always knew things would work out.

Mother's sister, my aunt Zarol, went to Catholic church faithfully. She went to the early services because Catholics aren't usually as long winded as baptists and Z was a busy person. She did a lot of work for her church but more importantly she did a lot of community work, demonstrating her beliefs instead of just spouting religion.

My beliefs are grounded in that quiet knowing and the demonstrations that I saw. My family never locked God into the church. Divine energy permeated life and that is what guides me now.
As I move forward now I hold on to those examples. Life can be a bitch. It gets hard and dark and lonely. When it does I don't normally run to be in a church. I keep church in me, get quiet and listen for and to the voice of the creator to teach and guide me into what and where I'm supposed to do and be. I'm not saying I always do what I'm instructed to do either. When I don't do what my soul says life shows me that should--meaning shit hits the fan. On the flipside, when I do what I know and sense is right everything works out.



PERSONAL SALVATION
Copyright 2003
J.Bailey

I write these verses like psalms
to clean the filth from my palms
cuz I know I'm still kinda dirty
the reverend and church never served me
so I use these words to redeem and resurrect my soul
and until I get old I'll never trust a preacher
to be my teacher
on matters of my spirit

The righteous talk to much fear shit that I'm just
not with it at all
and if I fall
it's all because I'm feeling hunted
somewhat stunted
but with my head held to the sky

I pray to the Most High ask why
is it that
these churches don't reach out
most preachers don't speak out
and my people get beat out of the
little change that rattles at the bottom of
their pockets
I can't stop it
there are so many tricks that put people in pits
of dispair
no one seems to care
and I wonder if my vice for smoke
reflects the lost hopes of children
robbed by false prophets

They line their pockets every Sunday
claiming it's for the building fund
then I get shunned because I can't stand church
It hurts to see people herded like cattle
but since I'm in a battle to save myself
I put those thoughts on the shelf
leave them alone and let them go

But given these days and times
God stays on my mind
and I realize that I'm
the anti-preacher
a poetic teacher and
a creature they can't figure out
words crash out of my mouth
like thunder
through the rain I maintain
pouring pain out of my heart

Cursed from the start but blessed with this art
I continue to climb the rope towards heaven
wondering if unleavened bread and dimestore wine
win souls precious time in the presence of the Lord
Will God ignore my pleas for salvation
because I reject frustration and religious domination in a church

The hurts from my past make me think
I can't last and I choke on the words
when I try to pray
so when judgement day comes
will I dwell in the slums of hell
a soul that fell because it questioned to much
feeling the clutches of the enemy reach for my neck

Runnin' toward something I ain't there yet
life don't seem fair yet
no one seems to care
YET
I keep on struggling
and formulation plans
feeling His hands touch my life
my termoil and strife are eased
from above
and though I question
I still feel God’s love

Spoken Word #1 "Who Am I"

This is my first audiopost. The poem is called Who Am I and it's one of my favorite pieces to perform. It's a hot piece so I hope you enjoy.

#11 Why I Write part 1

I've written on everything; notepads, journals, napkins, business cards, my hand, cardboard box tops, reciepts, walls, the edges and back of bills, envelopes, the inside blank pages of books, and anything else I could get a hold of when I've needed to write. If it can take ink or pencil lead I'm sure at some time or another I've used it. The larger truth is that at those times I'm being used as well. I don't write on all of those things because I want to. I write on them because I have to. The muse, or in my case, muses make me do it, and for the last 20 years, I've been a slave to their whims.

the evil muse


My muses are heartless bastards that don't care what I'm doing, who I'm with or what my plans are when one of them decides to lay some words on me. Actully they don't just lay them on me, they slap me in the face with them and then dance on my head until I write. I've been pulled over on the sides of highways because the muses thought that a road trip was just the time to give me a poem or and idea. Fuckers! But I love them for it.
What I'm saying is that writing isn't a choice to me--it's an imperative. I was born to do it and if I didn't write, I'd die. Up to now I've written in virtual obsurity but in some ways that doesn't bother me because I don't write for other people. I write things that I'd like to read, or things that need to get out and I'm the avenue they chose to use. I write because when I don't write my life seems darker somehow. I write because not writing is un-natural (meaning at odds with my nature).
I believe that there is something that everyone on this planet is meant to do. Writing is my thing. Speaking and teaching are my things to but both of those are offshoots of my writing. Since we are put here to serve a purpose the only way to truly be fulfilled is to do it without question. That's why I'm at the mercy of my muses. But the truth is that they have never steered me wrong. Some of my best writing has happened, or at least begun, on miscellaneous pieces of paper.
I don't claim that history will call me a great writer. There's no guarantee that history will remember me. But the creator watches and he makes a way when we serve our purpose. My life has, will have and has had difficulty, but when I write those things melt away. I won't claim divine inspiration or guidance but as I think about it, aren't all good inspirations and true guides from the spot in the universe we call divine? When given something to do by something greater than you makes whatever that is important.
I look at Van Gogh, an artist that never made any real money painting, and I understand why he kept painting. If he'd stopped painting because of hardship or the fact that he wasn't getting payed the world would have been robbed of that master's expression and art. I think about Tupac Shakur who produced enough as an artist that he's had more albums released after he died than when he was alive. Now I don't want to die before I get noticed or payed or appreciated but notice, payment and appreciation aren't why I write. Like Van Gogh and Shakur I am driven to do it.
I write because it's the right thing to do. I don't live to write---I write to live. If I didn't I'd be dead-even if I still drew breath.

#10 Paradox #1 Sex, Love and the 30's

My life is a series of paradoxes that I'll be exploring from time to time. Right now I want some pussy. If any women read that they may consider it crude but so what! Sex is great. Hot, wet, good-n-gushy pussy is one of my favorite things in life. Any man that says different is probably gay. Even preachers love pussy. But I digress. I don't give a fuck what anybody else likes. I know what I like and right now-today-I am in the mood for some sweet. Therein lies the paradox. I'm picky, and AIDS is not a joke. I've had one night stands, fuckin' friends, and flings and as fun as it can be, sex without love gets boring and seems crude. Now I'm not going to sit here and lie--if an attractive woman fell into the web right now--she'd get hit. But I have to admit that sex mixed with love is really what the whole thing is about. It's relativly easy to find a woman that will fuck. Black, white, short, tall, skinny or fat there are plenty of willing women who will do the damn thing, but sometimes the damn thing just isn't enough.



I have always been a man that looked for a spark. I see attractive women but if I don't feel it, I don't feel it. I'm not just going to persue a woman because I know I can get some. Unless I get "that feeling" I'm usually content just to converse, maybe trade numbers and not even trip. What worries me is that the older I get the fewer sparks I see, and the fewer "that feelings" I feel. Hopefully that's mostly a function of location. Being in the midwest I understand that the supply of women that I really dig is extremly limited. When I move to California I'm sure that my outlook will change. Until then, I'm left to ponder.

Purhaps it's just that I'm getting older and my male biological clock is in my ears. They say that women have a nesting instinct but men do to. There is nothing like family. I come from a strong family full of good women and I know that I want my own family and a good woman that can be my friend, my lover and my partner for life. I know that sounds mushy, but it's true. Men and women balance one another. Fucking does not bring balance. I remember one-night stands that after all of the sweat, moans and screams of ecstacy seemed like a waste of time. Yeah I said it. After I busted a nut all I wanted to do was be away from the woman that gave it to me. I used to think that was weird, but I know it's not. It's just the truth. I have some good friends that have felt the same way. But there have also been the times that I accepted gettin' some as just that and I was very happy about the damn thang. Like I said, however, gettin' the damn thang can be a damnable thing and sex just for it's own sake gets boring.

As my life and outlook change and I grow I see clearly. I know that this is an issue I'll have to deal with until I find a woman that satisfies me emotionally, spiritually, mentally as well as sexually. Sex is, however, a strong impulse that I truly--did I mention truly(with every atom of my being) enjoy. It is what it is.




And now---a poem that reflects my present mood

Horny
J. Bailey
Copyright 2005

My, My, My
I'm watching you walk by
thinking'
Damn I want some of you
I want to do things to you that may be considered illegal in some states
I want to sink every millimeter of my tongue inside of you
to see if I can taste your soul
Is that too bold?
Would you be surprised if I told you I wanted to ride the waves of your wetness
Palm your pussy
Isolate your clit between my fingertips and stroke it just the way you like
Lick you so well you mistake me for a dyke
But I'm all man
Using hot hands and warm oils I'd massage every inch of your beautiful ass
Take you to task and run the tip of this black dick
between
your cheeks
and then tease the folds of your pussy until
you beg me to stick it in
But I'll decide when
You have to appreciate this dick
So I'll let you give it a kiss
and listen to you moan while it's in your mouth
It's not like I turned you out
We both know you love to suck it
Fuck it--
we're both grown & we do what we do
And just like you do me--
Girl you know I love to do you
So now's the time for 69
You take me to the edge and I push you over
again and again and again
your cum is so sweet to taste
I love to rub my face all over the right spots
It's so hot steam rises from sheets that we didn't bother turning down
Covers get in the way and we both need room to work
My dick's so hard it hurts
Curved to the left it time to tests the depth of your wetness
I want to make sure you feel it so I take my time sinking into you
My chest against your breasts
Legs pushed up, your knees try to touch your shoulders
And I ease every inch in
Balanced on tip toes and flat palms so I can get in
Find out how I fit in
I don't know when I've had better
Like a hot knife on butter, we do more than cut
we melt together
a perfect fit
When we fuck like this
we become the definition of that freak shit

#9 Inspiration and Innovation

These are two of my favorite pieces--enjoy


11/17/03
By J.Bailey
Copyright 2003

I woke up this morning with no more words in my heart
&
my soul died a little bit because it missed the spark

There is magic when poetry starts
Emptiness when it ends

My words bent like fishhooks in fish mouths
They were arrows sent into souls
I’d speak and they’d enfold like warm blankets
Secrets kept too long and unleashed
I knew the meaning of purpose
I knew what intravenous drips of lightning felt like
I knew it all…
When I had words

When I gave words to the breath of life
They returned the substance of joy and I lived

When I felt them slip away I mourned their passing
Mourned them like a mother mourns a stillborn child
Remembering tomorrow’s memories left undone
Mourned like we mourn lost love
Bitter at the momentary sweetness of ecstacy
Merciless in its briefness
Mourned like convicts mourn their freedom
With resignation, tangy-tart-sour hope and the patience that only time can heal

Then I cried in the depths of my being because I didn’t know if
This silence was just a temporary migration of my muse
-gone for a moment but intent to return after my heart thawed and the long winter of loneliness subsided-
Or
If this silence was a mass muse migration
An exodus meant to confuse and confound and kill my spirit

I could not decide which it was

So I picked up my pen and wrote anyway

Innovation
Copyright 2004
J.Bailey



I don’t mind being on the outside looking in
I was meant to be there
Beating against the doors of the halls of acceptance
Outside of propriety
Outside of expectation
Outside of the edifice of how things should be

Knockin’ ‘til I cain’t knock no more
Kickin’ an’ screamin’ an’ spittin’ ‘til
My mouth dries up and my breath fails

Not for one second hoping that the doors fly open and all the pretty successful muthafuckas look at me and recognize my brilliance with open arms and glittering teeth

Vampire teeth glitter too
Dracula has to hug you
If he is to suck your blood

Nah—I don’t beat &
Scream & cry
So that I can get in
I don’t do in

I just want the door to open
just enough
So I can piss on the floor of acceptability

I want the door 2 open because I wanna see
The streaming multitudes that don’t have
The fists to beat, or the knuckles to knock, or the voice to demand
Invade and tear up the house of acceptability

I wanna see them tear down the thick curtains
Ravage the furniture and write on the walls
I wanna see muddy boots make tracks on buffed marble floors

I want them to run up the stairs to poetry’s bedroom so they can wake it up
Kick it’s ass and set it free
I want to see disrespectful legions of street poets w/o 1-man shows or tv promos
Armed with notebooks ripping the clothes off of the muse and leave the bitch naked
And cold
So cold that all of the volumes of all the poetic authorities look better as kindling than they do as books

And when the door closes again and the unacceptable findz a home in the House of Acceptability I’ll start knockin’ on the fuckin’ door again
Innovation knows no rest

#8 Computer literacy is a must--a lesson in focus and attention

Man, damn! Beginning this blog has made me pay more attention to the hows and whys of maintaining it. I am a writer but to be honest I'd rather use a pen and a pad than to deal with the computer. There is however reality. A pen and a pad are good for personal writing and rough drafting but editing and putting words in final form must be done on a computer. (*NOTE I don't own a computer right now---I can blog and fuck around on the net and even run my business b/c I have hustle--check the technique biooooooooooooootch) Computers can be our friends or our nemeses. Computers are machines that can transform lives or hold people transfixed by the images, games or infinity of information they put at our fingertips. I've always liked them but they have never been a necessity for me. Hell, I just started to regularly use email a couple of years ago and I looked at computers as diversions. I wasn't being short-sighted and believing that they were a passing fad, I just refused to become another screenwatcher. TV is bad enough but a screen that can take me anywhere at any time could become a serious addiction. So, even though I like computers I have stayed willfully ignorant of them. I can do basic shit but until now I've had neither the necessity nor the inclination to do much more.
this blog has changed a lot. I just spent 2 days figuring out how to post pictures and I'm still not exactly sure. The lesson is about focus. Because now I am focusing on being computer and net literate it's coming-slowly, but it's coming.
I swear that I went around in circles trying to post my profile picture. It literally to hours over two days to make it happen. But it's done. All the while I was trying and failing I was cursing to myself and planning a letter writing campaign that would petition the gods of computers and the 'net to make instructions make sense. Finally I just decided to look closely at the instructions and the answer became clear. I almost felt foolish. I say almost because upon reflections the directions weren't as clear as they could be, but they were clear enough if you do more than skim them. When attention and focus change, results change. I could go on and on but you get the point.

J.Bailey 

Just me and my dawg~! 

#5 The Truth About Kids: thoughts on education

I work with kids. Black kids, white kids, asian kids, latino kids and any combination thereof, and I am finding out a lot about who I am and what the future may hold through my work. I taught middle school social studies for two years and I can say unequivically that children are great and terrible at the same time. The underlying truth is that children, in so many ways, are exactly what the adults around them make them. What's fucked up is that so many adults in general and parents in particular don't do what is necessary to help kids achieve or even strive for their potential. I may be beating a dead-horse but damn so many children have no where to turn for guidance and encouragement that it's no wonder that they turn to other things like gangs, drugs, sex, tv, food, video games, and friends that are just as confused as they are, for help that none of those things can give. The nuclear family model has exploded and what remains is confusion about and somtimes avoidance of parental responsibility. On the flipside at school, teachers don't have, and many times don't even want, the tools necessary to relate to children from the post-nuclear family era.
I don't claim to have any of the answers but I can tell you what I think. These thoughts, although just opinion, are based on my time in the classroom as a teacher and from being an astute people watcher. As I write this levels upon layers of the problem shoot through my mind. There are psycological, sociological, economic, ethical, political, cultural and a myriad of different lenses to look at this problem through. Children themselves can be blamed as well as teachers, parents, churches and whevere one feels like putting the crosshairs on but I think that the bottom of the problem centers around 3 areas, love, honesty and responsibility.
If all who say they are concerned with the welfare of children approach the situation with love, honesty and responsibility a lot of the bullshit would evaporate. If parents used those lenses regardless of hardship children would understand what wasn't acceptable and fall in line with the parent. If teachers used those lenses they would look at every child individually and do what it takes to draw the best out of students.
I know this all sounds simplistic but it's all culled from my experiences. Because I have been able to forge relationships with many of the kids at the school I work at I see each and every one of them as a person and I give them my all.

#4 Poetry

I am a poet. I have written poetry for 20 years and I perform poetry whenever possible. I have hosted slams, won slams, participated in readings and all of that shit. I love both the written and the spoken word. I have archives and archives of things that I've written. I've written so many poems that sometimes I read them and don't remember when I wrote them. I'm good to. The thing about poetry is that it's better when it's shared. I intend to use this blog to share my poetry as well as my thoughts. So the following are a few pieces that I thought might be interesting for the interested. Enjoy.

CHANGE
J. Bailey
copyright 2005 (If anyone knows how to place a copyright symbol in text here please let me know)

I don’t wanna write the same poem anymore
I wanna look for new words too go with a new state of mind
I wanna dream lines that don’t even rhyme
Spend time with pen in hand feelin’ glad I was born
But sometimes I mourn the day I took on human form
Strange spirit won’t conform to the norm
Facing storms I forget the sky is blue
So many gray days piled in my past I don’t know what to do
&
the same poem puts itself down on the paper

I can’t seem to help it—
Even though I prefer different words
I can only write what I feel
life more surreal than Dali
outside objectively looking at me through
another’s eyes I’d see a study in confused insanity
when all I want is to be free from this funky rut I’m in

so I write

but the same poem keeps coming out

I wrote that piece because I was feeling stuck in my writing. I kept hearing the same types of poems at readings and I found myself revisiting subjects in my own work and just saying the same thing over and over. I figured that I might as well capture that feeling.

Freestyle?
J.Bailey
copyright 2005

I hardly ever freestyle cuz my style ain't free
it costs to live every second that I live as me
the roots of my family tree are anchored in the dirt produced by lynched corpses not simple geneology
blood spilled
mother's cried
and little boys straightened their backs and dried their eyes b/c daddy's not coming home

So how could my style be free?
Great gran-mamma was a Cherokee and her grandfather's feet
had to bleed on the trail to Oklahoma from Tennessee
even after that great Red nation cooperated with the Government and didn't flee
they were hounded and killed
How can my style be free?

It's been payed for in blood a thousend times
and even if I write a thousend rhymes
none of them will be free
they are the cream rising to the top of struggle
and
their cost can never be calculated

That piece is an historical reflection. Like many Black people and Americans in general my ancestry is a hodge-podge of different peoples. The African is obvious, but I also have Cherokee, Scot, Jew and other different peoples that are represented in my family tree. Personally, I consider myself Black but that doesn't stop me from acknowledging the other parts of my ancestry. This poem was a reflection of that.

Freeflow #1
J.Bailey
copyright 2005

I used to let poems just hit melike thunderbolts from God
stricken and electrified by words that resonate in my soul
Possessed by verses I couldn't control I would flow-
life blood spilled on paper carried by a heart that felt heavy in my chest
with no rest or relief I would pour myself onto pages
searching for cryptic answers in the shapes of letters formed into words
and written in the hopes that
someone, somewhere, sometime
would see and understand
and give them meaning
so
I would know
that
poetic insanity
is a blessing

This piece is just what the title implies. I just let the muse free to flow and that's what came out. I like it b/c it captures the dynamism of poetry.

#3 Sometimes it takes me a minute, but I usually figure it out

Day 2 of this blog. This is an interesting process. I don't know exactly how to manipulate everything but I am learning. It's a good thing to deal with a problem and to figure it out. Honestly it isn't that it's a problem it's a project. I like that better. This blog is a freedom project. The more I do and figure out about it the better.
My life is in project mode to. I went to a car dealership yesterday and they turned me down flat. Man my credit sucks. It's deplorable, embarrassing and disgusting. I made it that way though, so I can't be mad. I just have to pick up the mess, no matter how long it takes. Looking at it though it seems like I'll die trying. I know that isn't the truth but that doesn't stop me from being scared of really looking at my debts and figuring out how to get out from under them. I have to do it. I have to do it for my own piece of mind. I have to do it because if I don't I'll always be broke. I have to do it b/c I want a family one day and they don't deserve to suffer b/c I was irresponsible with my money. I must do it because I deserve to be free.