#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