An Ode to My Spades Partner (An Ode to Joi)

I can tell by that twinkle in your eye,
You know what I’m thinking
And just like magic, you and I,
Together, make wonderful books
That tell stories of victories won,
Trains ridden and friends lost
Because there’s no room for hate at the table
And 500 don’t take all night
So let’s show ‘em what these Spades can do before twilight
You got 4, I got 4 and a possible
We so good, that sounds like 10 to us
No, our math ain’t perfect, but the cards we make dance
Around the table are
You trump hearts, I trump clubs and nary 3 diamonds between us
‘cept that deuce
And, baby, we all know that’s a Spade
We cuttin’ like a blade
Our opponents, once with chicken wing arms
Now don’t even bother to reach out for books
We give ‘em that look
It’s hopeless after that, we laugh to our own soundtrack
As we match up suits, back, to back, to back
Our voices get so loud across the table, we might as well
Be screamin like we’re 5 miles apart
I’m talking so much junk, a turd falls out my mouth
And clear off the tip of my lip onto the table;
Now that’s some good shit talkin’
We’ve all got 3 cards left, you flip all of yours over
Big, Little, deuce of Spade
And just like that, the last train has left the suburb
And you, you my dearest Spade partner
Are the conductor

JayGee Quotable K

The past is for memories, not living.

Where have you been all of my life?

Me? I've been in the stew pot marinatin' in that good shit. That paprika shit and that lawry's shit. That garlic shit and that black pepper shit. They put the lid on me thinking it would hide me, but it only served to. . .you guessed it, let me marinate and come to a slow boil. But like much steam when it accumulates, something's got to blow.

I popped my lid and. . .well. . .here I am!

Indelible Mark

Etched deep in my skin
Like a beauty mark
Like stage fright
On opening night
Like. . .like cotton candy sweetness
Made soft and fluffy for eaten
Lost in the memory of my youth
Like stretch marks turned
Beautiful paintings
Telling the story of childbirth
Deep like hair follicles
Coiled and napped close to my scalp
Like my favorite book
That forced me to see the invisibility
In us all
Like red wine and sunshine
They go hand in hand since one helps grow
The grapes for the other
Like. . .like rubbing earth on to my skin
And not seeing the difference
Like undefeatable strength developed
Because of your woman’s Love
Like your favorite bowl of cereal
For dinner
Like leaving home and dreaming of
Your return
Like my sister, helping her brother
You have left an indelible mark
On my soul

My Advice While You Sleep. . .

Dream
Dream light
Dream bright
Dream moments could be better
Dream you will make them better
Dream happiness
Dream health
Dream Sex, ‘cuz it’s natural
Dream lullabies for adults
Dream string instruments
Dream beauty
Dream honey-sweet
Dream lucidly
Dream radical
Dream free
Dream endlessness
Dream

Then awaken and live those dreams

Open air

I sit ‘cross from you
Mirrored minds
Dream wonders of
Daylight in the night
Biblical drip drops of
A sane man gone wild
By the statistical Revelation
That it ‘tis what it ‘tis
And you is what you is
And Iambs what Iambs
Without the pentameter
To complicate things
I swing low off your high brow
Never needing confirmation
For my existence to you;
In you; I live one breath
At a time, we sip wine
Until we realize it is the blood of us
And knowing that one day
We will remember someday
And someday we will remember
Every day for the rest of our lives
Sunrise, brings newness to old
And oldness to memories
As we chant it down making stories
Of a past made obsolete by
Time changes. I change the time
On my other clock never forgetting
What time of day it means to be
Sitting. . .centrally located in the U.S.
But US? No time nor distance can
Separate a homesick mind in need
Of homecookin’ or at least, homebrewin’
I don’t make a fuss, I just rush
Back home, get undressed and make
A mad dash to my bed, to sleep,
Then dream, then join you there.

Alive

There is a delicate balance between the alive and the living; hardly noticeable by most, but very pertinent to those who spend their lives living and not just alive. There’s an application that must be accessible to each of us that says breathing is the mode by which my body lives so that my brain may exact the living. Every notable person you have ever come to know started out an infant, born unto a Mother with little more skill involved than the ability to take their first breath. Fast forward to how many ever years you’ve been on this Earth and know that if you’re still only breathing, then you’re no different than the baby you began your life as.

A lot of times, we sit and stultify our growth because we choose to believe that the best of us has past. Not to say this is conscious thinking, but we look back at our youths when we were graded daily on our performance and see that as the successes we have realized or have had to realize. As we become adults, there are no more grades, there is no more exact study, there are no more teachers unless we go out and seek these things or become these things, whichever one.

And all I’m saying is that there’s no living in the past. The past is the one thing that ekes away from us like water through a drain. We can no more utilize that water than we can utilize a 10^th grade math medal to speak to our potential at 30. And yet, this is where we put ourselves; scared to face the future. Scared to predict successes because we forget how to set goals and not be too tired to accomplish them; because no one is grading them. We forget to dream and relegate our future to little more than our pasts.

Instead I tell you this. There is nothing wrong with being an adult and dreaming. Every course is navigable by change and so your course of life can too change. If you’re using your past to help propel you through your future, then there is nothing wrong with that, but use it as a model, not as how things could be. Don’t try and make a return to youth because you’re no longer young. Figure out the next stage of your existence and become it; that should be your goal. And in the end, you cease living in the past and begin compounding on it.

Let your "dare to" dreams and your "I remember" past tango.

Ummmmmmmm

Ummmm

Damn! Give me some!

Give me some of that what-you-got

I need it because it makes me feel like me

Back when I was handlin’ things

When I was in control, when I was in my element

Give me some of that what-I-need so that I can stand to

Live another moment. To live another day; another point in time

Give me some of that what-you-say, because I like replaying it in my mind

All the time, I see why grown men cry at you because you make

Them feel so sweet.

Give me some of that it’s-so-good, so that I can remember what good felt like

What good is like, what is good.

And just when you think you’ve given all you can give?

Please allow me to give you some of that you that you gave to me

That some of that what-I-get, so I give in return

Some of that right-on-time, sprinkled with a bit of your what-you-say

And then. . .and then. . .and then. . .

Let’s give it to the World.

I'm Just Me

Every day. Each day. I live. And I need you to understand that. My detriment is to be in this world, but it’s not how I live in it. My existence is one mired in disbelief, but every day, each day, I must curry favor to that which allows me to breathe. That which guarantees you hear a "Hello" on the other end of the phone whenever the mood hits you to call.

That what I know doesn't come from study, but from real life experiences that make me as much knowledgeable as you are. That you don't attain 30 years of existence on a wing and a prayer without applying the skills that is to listen and learn.

I have learned. I learn, I am learning. I will learn what it is to be a better me amidst the sea of "like" me's and choose the right course of demeanor like my outfits I choose each morning to go to work. And yet, I understand my dimensions. There are more than 3 because I see that which is not tangible. And those said things are outside of the 3 dimensions my corneal lenses can refract to me.

My world is of one that seeks ignorance abstinence and I cannot. . .I repeat, I cannot let myself down. Why? Because I was taught better. Therefore, I learn better. This is not even just me talking right now; this is the better part of me, which knows when it is ok to let the worse part of me do what it do, while pulling on the reigns when things appear to be on the verge of getting out of hand.

I fear failure, not because I believe I will fail, but because we all, at some point play a not so friendly game of duck-duck-goose with failure and sometimes, we're tagged the goose.

Coincidence? Never. But we should know that to fail is not the end of the world, just like to be tagged "goose" is not the end of the game. Instead, we must become the lion on gazelle legs that is both hungry and scared of being eaten. But each must remain alive until that point in time when earthly we are no more.

Or at least no more alive than whence we first started to understand we could not live forever. . .physically. I've already solidified my non-earth existence. I do so every day. Each day. As I live.

This is a piece of who I am. Please Love me.

Moonlit Love

At night, I fight make-believe wars in my head
Trying to conjugate verbs with no actions
Feeling black, but glowing bright
Against the pale moon light
I stare straight, but my thoughts bend
Towards the wind that flutters west of my existence

My insomnia is caused by hydrogenated thoughts
Floating out of me taking pieces of me
Up to the sky where I truly feel I was born to be
But maybe, it helps to be grounded and remain
Humbly concreted to the Earth’s surface
As I use the leverage to subdue mental contraband
I hold in my head and I hold in my hand
As I touch myself wishing it was you

The hue that clouds my face like a veil or like
My veiled existence, poppin’ hot like Crisco
Cooking biscuits in a frying pan because
The stove won’t light
Well lit maturation of a slave turned free thinker
Pulling my future through a funnel
My past has become a tunnel and with each passing day
I write

Words to paper, I beseech you to visit me through this pencil
As I collect you through my mental stimuli that
Sets my body on fire, blowing blue flames across
The wicked terrain that shakes and rattles on
Ungreased wheels propelling the Earth around in
One circle every 24 hours
I devour the paper, once the words create her and I know
Through it, through you, it is black Love that keeps me. . .
Awake

Chocolate Sex Appeal

Chocolate & spoon-fed
Oasis in her eye
Deep-dive dimples
Make death come alive

Regimented silence
Enter room with a view
Table nightstanded lilies
Blue lights, dark hue

Tilted slight glare
Slim waist, thick hump
Smile that encages
Sweet sunshine, heart pumps

Fantastic notions
Optimistic world sights
Androgenistic potions
Capture me, by nights

Grab you, hold me
Love you, show us
Made you, do me
Breathe heavy, rest us

Fixated exhaustion
Replicated movements
Leave 'cuz you must
Know this; I'll lament

untitled WIP. . .

The mystery of inequity is buried deep within our prose
When we stand and we talk about things that we don’t know
Like dogs and garden tools, excuse me, I mean bitches and hoes
And we act mean towards our friends, and act kind toward our foes

My absolution for all men is wearing slightly paper thin
I have lost the keys to the kingdom that used to reside within
My creation is folly until I see my purpose and then
I can begin to act on those actions to hopefully better our men

But currently I am lost; I have fallen clear off the stage
And stumbled out onto the streets where lies my inner rage
Waiting for the day, I’m picked up and locked inside a cage
Forever closing the book on me and thus losing the once known page

My insanity has grown to an uncontrollable bulge
I look at human existence and don’t understand our fold
We make mention of righteousness based off stories told
By the Bible, but many of us never revisit our souls

I shutter to think what life would really be like
If instead of picking up a book I had decided to be like Mike
A rich basketball player who’s fallen silent after the game
Which goes to show there’s more to this life than just fortune and fame

We all have a power inside that surges within
If we encourage ourselves we can be more to our family and friends
We must build ourselves first from the anti-matter to our next of kin
Then we’ll all be siblings in the same battle; sisters and brethren

The difference is. . .

I am a writer. One day, I hope to become an author. “But aren’t they the same thing?”, you may ask. No. The difference between a writer and an author is that a writer just knows how to write. An author knows when to stop writing. An author knows when a story has run its course. An author will leave you waiting for the next time s/he writes.

Writers give you no such luxury. They write and write and write and then when they think they have written too much, they begin to fade their story. A great story should never fade. Like human life, it is the difference between withering away and dying an honoree death.

Your value is greater when it can be remembered how great you were, than to pretend your greatness can defy the inalienable diminishing returns of time. Unless those returns are great memories, there aren’t any returns; they’re droppings, if you get my drift; or perhaps, if you take a drift on what I am saying.

An author’s story never ends. No matter how many titles s/he may come up with, it is all from the same story; the story inside your head. It has neither beginning nor end. It is a part of the continuous stream we call life, but is so much more than that. The ‘line’ we live on that continues time immemorial allows us to be but tiny specs on its existence. Blips, that if we’re lucky will be passed down the line to future generations. . .that is if our impact is strong enough.

What turns a writer into an author is his ability to compartmentalize his life. How can I give a beginning and an end to one particular phase? Don’t get me wrong, a writer can tell a great story, but it takes an author to put understandable parameters around “what I want to say. . .”, “what I am saying. . .”, “what I said.” If the reader can walk away answering those 3 questions on behalf of the penman, then it is a good authored story.

I am a writer. One day, I hope to become an author. . .(fading)

Your Passing Will Not Be in Vain!

On Saturday morning, I found out from my Mother that my cousin, Shawn in Trenton, had to suffer through her Son being taken away from her by a bunch of robbers who took something much more valuable than any amount of printed money; they took away a 20 year old, black man's life. He ran for it, they ran after it; they ran faster.

Though I didn't know Naquan and may remember having met him once when he was but a young teenager, I do feel some sense of responsibility. I have tons of male cousins and their children who I don't know, nor do I have any type of contact with. Though I will be the first to admit that I'm not your typical role model, it can and has been argued that I have done alright by my self, my family and the black male in society. But there's always room for more.

I should do a better job of reaching out to some of these kids and checking on them. I was fortunate enough as a child to look at my Mother daily and conjugate her actions into what I would expect to see from a male role model. It worked. I am, as tough as Brenda Adams, in more ways than physical. I should extend myself to my family, as much as, and as frequently as I extend myself to my friends. And for that, I do feel remorseful.

No, I didn't know Naquan, but I know "Naquan." And though the man, by his namesake, is no longer with us, the man as a representation of our youth, is still alive and fighting for survival. I must do more.

Naquan, here is to you and your life cut down entirely too quickly. Shawn, my dearest cousin, my condolences go out to you as you go through this difficult time.

My mother sent me an email this morning asking me if I might prepare a few words, a poem or some prose that can be read during Naquan's funeral. She prefaced her note by saying "I know you're very busy. . ." Her words hurt though very justified. I prepared a poem that she may read and though quick and rough, I thought I would share with you.

I'll end by saying here, before it's too late, because tomorrow is DEFINITELY never promised, I LOVE you all!!
-------------------------

Your Passing Will Not Be in Vain!

In life, there are circumstances which we cannot control
There is an evil that resides amongst us that we must all behold
Though tireless our efforts sometimes we’re not allowed to reach our goals
And it is at those times, as a family, we must look to God to remain whole

Naquan, you are a blessing though your life came and went far too soon
We cherish your life in the physical form, though now only mentally your life resumes
And though we mourn, on this day, for the passing of a soul evil has consumed
We rejoice in the light of your life that has touched us internally like both the sun and the moon

We promise to take good care of your memory; two wrongs will never make anything right
We believe in the paths the Lord holds for us all, and so your passing was due to his insight
We wish we could have you back in an instant, for this reality we would all gladly fight
But it is out of our hands, so pray as we may, we now look to you as our angel to shed to us light

So rest my child, my Son, my black brother, for God has called you home in his name
It is not always only those whom are important to him who live a life of fortune and fame
For each one called home will live in eternity, though physically they may never rise a-gain
And know that each of us dedicates a part of our lives to you; your passing will not be in vain

May God Bless the spirit that is your life, Naquan, so that someone, anyone can learn a valuable life changing lesson from this unfortunate, unfortunate loss.