Stuff

As we just moved from a home into a small apartment less than a month ago, we had to downsize our belongings quite a bit.  When we move to Italy on January 6, 2010, we'll have to downsize even more.  At times like these we realize how much "stuff" we've got.  I recently heard a poem about stuff that I'd like to share with you.

Stuff, by Don McCaleb

I got stuff.

Good stuff.  Happy stuff.

Successful, sensational, recreational, relaxational stuff.

Mac stuff, PC stuff, I-stuff.

Fun fashion, cool cash and fast action.

Rocket ships and chocolate chips.

Stuff with crosses, Christian fishes.

Stuff beyond my wildest wishes.

And you can't take my stuff.

My stuff is the needle that drops to the vinyl

to start the party and spin the spiral.

My stuff immediately, impressively, incessantly

illuminates my import,

and by stuff is loud.

It commands respect and you can't neglect

when my stuff says, "I have arrived, And this is what I'm all about!"

My stuff identifies me.

And I

identify

with my

stuff.

My stuff is so high you can't get over it,

so wide you can't get round it.

You can't handle my stuff!

My stuff is the needle that tattoos my skin,

signifying the significance of who I am.

I got stuff.

Stuff from my past...

that follows me around

like some run-down evangelist-carnival caravan

that keeps coming to town.

In the amusement-park dark

swaggering saints from the shadows shout my shattered story,

selling sacred success-souvenirs and seductive soul-sideshows.

Their slanted slogans solicit me, slander me, compel me.  Tell me

fortunes I regret that I can't forget.

And seeking grace I surrender to the stuff-spell,

but it conjures no confession, no communion;

just a constant carousel of clamor

that casts out the quiet and the questions,

So I don't have to hear my heart...beat.

My stuff is a Ferris wheel that takes me up to the top

and drops me right back down again.

But after a while I twist and I spin,

and I want off,

but the ride never stops.

I got stuff.

Right now

my stuff is an elevator straight to the penthouse floor!

But sometimes,

no matter what number I push,

I can't seem to open the door.

You can't handle my stuff.

My stuff is the needle that injects my vein,

and it's warm like a fever and it spreads like a stain

and it itches, and I scratch, and I dig

til it burns like a blaze.

But all I have in my hands is gasoline,

and I can't stop the flame.

I got stuff.

You can't handle my stuff.

You can't take my stuff.

Can You?  Take my stuff?