This life of mine. . .

I feel like this life of mine. This life is not mine anymore. I'm just here directing the path of a human spirit hell bent on influencing whomever he comes into contact with. And though that may make some of you feel sad, it doesn't make me feel that way.

The path of sacrifice is for whoever can see their way to the starting line. Its an indellibe and ineffable experience. I mean its not easy explaining to people that you're always tired, because as the world turns, so does the sphere of human need. Invariably, success comes from sacrifice. All want success. Not all want to sacrifice. That's where I believe this human spirit is directing me.

And though my instincts tell me that life at this pace, will surely lead to a quicker death, I don't mind. That makes me work harder at leaving pieces of myself behind. To ensure my passage, not necessarily my path is passed on to anyone who could use a good story. Or maleficent adjustment to their life's décor. We all have to clean the house every now and again.

JayGee Quotable G

Sometimes, its not lack of understanding, its having the confidence to say what you understand.

Lil' Miss Granny Dorite

When I grow old, I want to be just like my Grandma

My grandma, who don't hear so good now. But it doesn't matter, because she's heard it all. From a southern racist's ill retorts to rappers belittling the very matriarchal foundation of modern day black society as we know it today.

When I grow old, I want to be just like my Grandma

My grandma who don't see so well now. But it doesn't matter, because she's seen it all, from a cotton gin that so beautifully wove the very bails she picked with her own two weary hands to little girls under 16 dressing more scantily in cotton than some of her 50-something daughters ever have.

When I grow old, I want to be just like my Grandma

My grandma whose mind is still as sharp as a whip. Can recall countless birthdays and dates from her shestory. My grandma who if she never took one more look at the Bible could recite it from front to back. My Grandma who can still recite her family's phone numbers without having to consult a cell phone directory.

I want to be like my Grandma, because she's seen the worse it could be and even more worse than that. She knows progress and she knows progress' end. And maybe, maybe if I experience what my grandma has experienced, I could do something about it before its too late.

She's gotten me this far. If I can be more like my grandma, maybe I can make it the rest of the Way.

Where are we?

So here I am. Stuck living out my dreams, one nightmare at a time. From the self-inflicted Holocaust of my own culture with the help of capitalism, to societal perpetration of sanity through loose interpretation. I am a head case. But I'm the norm; at least for those not living in denial.

I can neither confirm nor deny the empirical data that supports my theory. That is only because the English language is encrypted. Behind command of the English language is power and intellectual ability to communicate. But no one wants to be smart anymore, so we suffer the indignity of remembering logins to access our lives now locked safely behind a computer screen and a password.

And does any of that make sense? We use our brains less and less. It’s getting to the point that we don't know how to keep secrets anymore. And why should we learn? The government has its ear and hand into everything. Our very private lives become exposed like rosebuds on the first day of bloom, whether we choose it or not. No more option for anonymity.

No one wants to dream nightmares. The pain can become downright unbearable. This insatiable need to hurt like a black person with the weight of the race on his shoulder has become more of a fanciful tale of 'who’s lived it,' rather than reality. And I'm sick of it. I'm sick of dreaming the dreams of a poor man, made poor by his inability to shake the parody of his own blackness.

We tell stories of rags to riches, forgetting to include the detail about the middle. Yet, all the while creating make believe for our children who understand only that it takes talent to be rich, but don't fully understand the work it takes to get there; I.e., "the middle." They definitely understand rags though.

My hope is that one day, we all can dream and they will be real dreams. Dreams of enlightenment that give us the details behind how to accomplish those dreams. Roadmaps. And then we all follow these roadmaps and they lead us right into Heaven's Way. For there lies a street on which we all could live if we could just find the directions there.

And then the only nightmare we'd have is the fear of regression. That's a motivator. Wouldn't that be nice?

JayGee Quotable F

Logic makes sense to me.

Thoughts and snowflakes

I think too much. And then I forget things. And then I spend too much time trying to remember what I forgot because I thought it was just that good.

Why do we send ourselves through these mental escapades. A thought, like snowflakes, are always accompanied by more thoughts. And though they are all different in shape and size, they still manage to keep the same nascency.

Like snowflakes, if you've seen one, you've seen them all. And though one is not like the other, it is perfectly acceptible to see snowflakes that look similar, yet not at all the same, so long as at the end of the day, you can still understand. . .its a snowflake.

Power Struggle

Power Struggle:

If I controlled you, but then would you control me
I am human in flesh, you, an entity
I, a singular vibration, you, a corporation
Capable of separating me with machines,
Until I cease to want liberation
Sell me the commodities that I used to slave over
Degrade my body, my soul and what’s more over
Lacerate my mind with your knives of influence
Strip me away from my path of affluence
It’s a dirty, dirty game, and I see right through it
Teach me what you know, blind me with your movement


Use the Pythagorean theorem as your truth serum,
But I know there’s much more than that
Separate my being from what my ancestors taught the world
I know this and yes I am black

Build what I lack
Take my freedom back

Engage in discourse
Ride away on a horse

Absorb the sun
Become one

Knowledge of self
Can’t be depleted by wealth

Know from whence you came
So you can come back a-gain

Blossom with life
Die minus inner strife

Preserve what is good
Unmask your hood

Fight the good fight
Bid your friends a good night

Though the inner struggle lies within,
Each morning you must wake up and do it again

Memory lane. . .

Remember how fruit loops used to taste? I want my life to be sweet like that. When I eat like that. From reality like that.

And I know. My world could be better if it be's like so. But I have got to ensure the salvation of my soul.

Removed from lower lows, I reach toward higher heights. Until my days don't feel old and my mood keeps positive nights.

Roots, like straws for trees, sucking in nutrients to stay alive. My caterpillar thoughts encased in my cacoon mind, like butterflies, will one day rise.

Fruit Loops.

JayGee Quotable E

When asked, “How did you become so successful, how did you make it there?”

I replied, I looked left, I looked right, I saw my path ahead of me, I sighed, looked up, thanked God for the air to breathe and put one foot in front of the other.

Sumthin. . .

For every face that you have seen laugh, it has also cried. For every spirit you have seen cheered, it has also mourned. For every heart you have seen healed, it has also hurt. For every joy is mirrored by every pain; it is the only way they can tell each other exists.

It is time we realized that those things which represent pain for us are as alive as those things that bring us joy. That to run from or resist pain could mean not to realize our potential. There's more to this world beyond the realm if ease, happiness and relaxation.

Another Thought. . .

Have you ever looked someone in the eye only to see them contemplate their life's worth right there on the spot? What’s the cause of that? Is it that you catch them mid-thought when eyes connect, so they stop what they're thinking? Is it that something they see in you makes them start down a path of inward reflection, juxtaposing where they are right now versus where you are at that point in time?

I have reason to believe the latter. If I don’t believe the latter, then I would be forced to believe the former. And if I believed the former then that means a lot more people are contemplating their life’s meaning than I think. I have reason to believe that not many people do.

Or maybe they are contemplating their life’s meaning using their subconscious. Maybe it’s that most people can look at your face and know what you’re thinking. Is it plausible to be able to look at someone’s face and know what their subconscious is thinking? Humph. That would be an interesting notion indeed, but one, perhaps, worth extrapolating further. I will. . .someday.

What is it that you want?

What is it that you want?
You beautiful, delicate little flower
I just want to see you in the rain shower
Washing all of your fears away

Allowing the hummingbirds and bees to come play
As they pull at your honeysuckle
Your beauty makes a grown man’s knees buckle
As I bend with a smile to admire you a bit closer

Your petals, so fine you send my heart on a rollercoaster
To smile as pretty as you and spread to the world, joy
So delicate, can never be mistaken as a toy
I long to pick you up and hold you close to my heart

But I must be smart
Because a flower picked too soon will not fully bloom
Picked at the right time your quintessence will light up a room
Bringing to all that set eyes on you, richness and delight

She sleeps by night
But oh what dreams must follow her there
A whiff of the flower I place in her hair
And I shall join her their soon

You beautiful, delicate little flower

Black Woman. . .

Your hair, forehead and lips,
Match the curve of your hips

Cheek bones, nose and eyes,
Match the fullness of your thighs

The arch of your neck,
Make me lick my lips wet

The curvature of your spine,
Dammit somebody give me some wine

I just want to admire you,
I love the way you do what you do

You're black to me,
I love you endlessly! ! !

JayGee Quotable D

What does capitalism mean to me? It means finding easier ways to make the public dumber, and make them look good while they do it.

Brain fart A. . .

I lay on my back, searchin' for my soul
Can't stop this motion 'til I see myself whole
Not sure where this poem I write is gonna lead
Drops of sweat form on my head like beads

I'm not nervous, just anxious, cuz I am
not sure where my resting grave sits on this land
Where my peeps will leave, what remains of me
So I think, then create, then write what's in me

The faster I think, the more I lose control
Of this computer, called my brain I behold
By and by, I'm shackled to myself
Print these thoughts that I have and throw 'em on a shelf

Just a thought, a thought that I had
About some shit, that kind of makes me glad
That I like to spend time contemplating life
To be continued. . . . . . . . . . yeah. . . . . . . .hype

Undercurrent

As I sit by the shore of life, waiting for the undercurrent of love to come sweep me away, I suddenly realize that it'll never happen unless I move closer to the water's edge.

I've been a spectator too long, taking in the beautiful sights, sounds and views of love from just outside the reach of the undercurrent. I wonder if I hesitate for fear that the waves will drown me. I've seen death here before and I don't want to be one of those people who were warned of nature's fury and chose to stay and watch, as oppose to leave for higher ground and safety.

I've also seen the beauty and magic of dolphins, fish, birds and sea crustacean, working with the current, floating, floating, floating and sustaining life and love amidst that sea of love.

So what am I waiting for? (sigh) Me. I'm waiting for me to take a deep breath and walk closer to the shore's edge, where I can be swept up by the undercurrent of love. And I know that for me, the thought of jumping into the sea of love would be better because then I could control how I enter the sea. It was suggested to me that I do not approach the sea of love that way.

I was told to get yourself to a place where love can touch you. Where you can be in the presence of love. Where you're ready for love when it comes to overwhelm you into its graces.

So here I am. At the shore of life, waiting for the undercurrent of love to come sweep me away and all I have to do is take two steps forward. Am I ready?

Yes I am.

She's so precious. . .

Today, I saw a black mom in the laudramat beating her daughter named Precious. That's all I have to say about that one.

Who it 'be'?

The left side of the right side of me leads me to question the intentions of my ‘be.’ The ‘be’, it’s the construct of my being; the result of how I am, the life I am, its true meaning.

And though I walk the world unafraid of leaving it, I take special care to craft my physical ‘be’ so that I can remain a spiritual constant to all who(m) know me.

The ‘be’ of my behind will not be left, as I right the ships long ago tossed aside by the people who care less if I live or die.

My “I” or my “eye” must see past the dangers of self-sacrament in the name of capitalism yet bellow thunderously when the giver in me is brought into question.

For no man shall ever rise above the need of “all.” We need “all.” We need “all” like we need me, you and we. . .together, not separately.

The sanctity of my sanity depends upon the malicious betrayal of selfishness. The truest essence of survival can never be fit if we do not, “work it out!”

I stand, unafraid of my future, yet there is an unknown factor within it that aims to blindside me at the precise moment I have no airbag for safety. Presently, I never forget to carry my airbags.

Yet I am safe; safely embedded in the minds and souls of a precious few who one day will tell a story of me. And it won’t be half bad; in fact, I won’t mind it being told at all. As long as it serves to grow my ‘be’ inside of the next being.

My speeches’ impediment is ignorance. For it is not that I know not what to say, but that if my receiver knows not what to hear that shall subjugate the transfer of information.

And so like racetracks, planets and history, my story goes round and round in circles looking for a home called an ear.

Please, help my thoughts find their way to a safe haven, known as your recesses. Treat each thought as its own embryo living and fighting for its first breath. . .or your first breathe of its conception. Let me ‘be.’

I am indebted.