“That’s Not Who I Am.” (5-7 stanzas)

And so we went

with nary a word into the dark night.

The headlights illuminated little around us

leaving us with a dim understanding of where we were going.

That was for the best,

I tried to convince myself.

That was all apart of this letting go theme.

But was this who I am?

My eyelids were starting to fall.

I looked over at the man with no name.

Saw his silhouette waving in and out of focus,

looking ghostly.

He’d moved onto smoking a joint

and singing under his breathe with the Goldberg Sisters.

I saw shinning tears running down his cheeks.

I wipe away the salty wet from my cheeks

and just as I fall asleep he punched the radio off,

angrily,

muttering,

“That’s not who I am.”

_

_

I woke up when we came to a screeching halt.

My head flung forward and then snapped back.

“MOTHERFUCKER!”

screamed the man with no name.

My foggy eyes cleared quickly, panicking about what could have happened.

I jumped out of the car.

He was just standing at the edge off to the edge of the headlights.

Feet planted.

Arms crossed.

Back to me.

Cautiously I joined peering into the murky darkness the lights tried to pierce.

My eyes widened.

We stood on a precipice of a gorge.

He laughed,

“Marla was right!

You might die at any moment.

The fucking tragedy?

You don’t!”

“Would have killed us?” I yelled, in fright,

in anger,

in excitement.

He winked at me,

“Maybe.”

“That would have made you a murderer!”

He winked at me again with a scary smile,

“That’s not who I am.

Who are you?”

_

_

Walking toward the car, he let out a barking laugh.

My vision went funny and my body began to ache.

Then they came in big billboards

that passed me on this stagnant road right by the ledge.

I saw Lowell being built in the Industrial Revolution.

Flashing before me I witnessed Kerouac sitting at his typewriter,

my parent’s pointless mundane lives,

the banking job I had,

the kids poking fun

(that pain still burning).

Showing me fully connected to the social media of the day-

Showing me a slave to the entirety.

I felt sick as I fell to my knees covering my eyes.

“Why is this happening?”

“Showing you a Jack’s wasted life.

“But

“That’s not who I am.”

He winked again with that scary smile.

Walking toward the car, he let out a barking laugh,

“That’s not who I am!”

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9 Comments

Filed under Mr. Stacker

9 responses to ““That’s Not Who I Am.” (5-7 stanzas)

  1. Oh, how I looked forward to this. And I was not disappointed!! I love how madly, furiously engaging this piece is. I feel as if I have been taken up in the whirlwind with our protagonist and the man with no name. And I wonder if I will ever discover who I am.

    Beautiful. Simply beautiful.

    • J.R.Taylor

      Thank you, pishnguyen! I am so happy you are connecting and enjoying this so much! I am even more enthralled that it didn’t disappoint! I hope the last 4 stanzas wrap it up well for you!
      And i don’t think we can ever fully know ourselves because we are constantly changing and adapting to the situations around us. It’s a mystery roller coaster! :)

  2. Kourtnie

    I loved this! “You might die at any moment./The fucking tragedy?/You don’t!” Thank you for sharing. It’s beautiful. :)

  3. wow, shocking how our own lives look, even to ourselves! great poem!

  4. Reblogged this on Bastet and Sekhmet and commented:
    And the beat goes on…second installment of this fantastic poem, how could I not reblog…I’m wondering as I read…each step along the road urges one to seek the answer: who is he…who am I.

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