Morning Yoga with Louis: I’m Not

I met this guy Louis Jackson at the place I’m living at during the summer. He is this incredible Yoga instructor who is kindly helping me out with Yoga in the mornings. I first met Louis during ‘Amateur Night’ at our house where he read this incredible poem he wrote as he was trying to figure out who he was after spending much time with Hare Krishnas. As much as you can define yourself by what you are, you can also define yourself by who you are not. Enjoy.

 I’m not

 

the suit I wear

sewn from skin muscle and bones and hair.

 

I’m not a shade of yellow or black

red brown or white

or the blue green grey in the eye

or the tears I cry

from a rush of emotions I’m not what I flush. 

 

The blood I gush I’m not

the veins and arteries aren’t me. 

 

I’m not Christian

Hindu

Muslim

Jew Tao Zen

or any religion.

 

I’m not the land of my birth

or the body that dies   

or the next of kin who cries

or the girlfriend who’s now lonely

because she can’t see beyond 3D.

                       

 

            “To be or not to be” ain’t the quest

            “I am,” and not cause “I think.”

I ain’t the mind

nor bound by time

or the culture whose drug is to drink.

 

I’m not equal.

I’m not a history month

or a heritage week 

or the subject of appreciation days

or metro hetero bisex or gay.

 

I’m not a nigger but oh how I love that word

but speakin of which, I’m not what I say.

 

I’m not the juice I misuse

or the seed I bleed

or plant to grow a field of memories harvested in nerve endings.

 

I’m not atoms bound

or vibrations

energy

or light

or space

or what’s between

or dreams

or a human being.

                                               

I’m somewhere over the rainbow bridge

where time and this form have ceased.

I took this ride

from deep inside,

but even still, I’m not the journey.

                                                                                                          

So, what am I then

if not earth, wind

fire, enemy or friend

an ist or an ism

or the “high tone moan” 

from her inner thigh

or the refracted light

through a spine’s prism?

 

What am I?

 

I’m not.

 


-Louis Jackson