4.19.2004 :::
Pieces of Me: A Scene From Suzanne's
There is a room with a soiled bed,
By which I mean in soil, growing.
Growing ever since I grew uprooted.
I'm here, in this room as a scavenger.
Not the historian or hopeful youth
I ought to be at this point and time.
Sliding open the door, it makes a
Sort of whooshing sound, giving way
to ghosts and memories, they will
Return. This is where they live.
Where they were born and ultimately
Where they will die. I come back here
From time to time, to remember these
Pieces of me, and that's all they are.
I find my Neitzsche trees, that taught
Me "God is dead."
I find some tiesty fleas, which
Infested my bed.
The mildewed posters with famous
Faces, and turtle superheroes.
The Magic cards, with window
Shards from a vagrant neighborhood
Baseball.
All these are pieces of me, and
Pieces of something more.
The plastic cactus which isn't
Mine lies in the corner, but
I do recall when not so tall,
I feared its plastic spines.
Action figures both open and not,
Reflect in me old story lines,
Where Batman was a wrestler
But never fought a Joker.
And then, sometime between the
Lined up yearbooks with scrolls
Of "Have a nice summer" from
People i've long forgotten. Forgotten
Even though they shall remain
Lasting forever as a piece of me.
Up on a shelf sits old Big Nose,
a stuffed bear, given me by my
Grandmother, named for obvious
Reasons. He watched me touch my
First woman, and sadly my last.
I was a child then, and yet
Six years later I am one now.
And then again, here is a book
Of poems, I wrote about a girl,
A girl named Natalie when I was
Just fifteen. This from that era,
The era I tried to kill myself.
Why, I'm not too sure. But now
Reading this book of poems,
With a dolphin on the cover,
I think I begin to understand.
Standing in the middle, of this
Old breathing room, I attempt
Not to inhale, and failing to
Do so, I resume attempting
"Never give up" proclaims a pillow
Stained with Kool-Aid or cough
Syrup. On it, a picture of a bird
Eating a frog, but in one last
Attempt at life, the frog is choking
The bird. Frogs do not have hands.
But the message is not lost.
The door connecting my old room to
The house is not the type with
A knob and a key. The door is
Glass, and slides back and forth.
It, the door, offered little privacy.
I used to look out as a buffer,
To spy on my fancies, to lie to
Enemies. Now it is a torture for
My memories. A jail they look out
Of at me and know they are forgotten.
Forgotten, broken but still pieces of me.
And then, I get old, past the
Driving age, and my room became
A place to sleep and little more.
This is how my material things
Turn into memories. And i'll
Keep them here, until the room
Is full, or until Suzanne moves.
Ah, here is what I came for,
A letter from a girl I love.
A letter and a card among many,
But this one was the first.
Maybe it was this, I fell in love
With, maybe not. But in this
Room, it does not belong.
As I've not fogotten her.
She'll not end up in this place,
With her pretty face.
Maybe someday, after we're
Married, and this place it
Buried, I'll bring her here,
To my biography. To my
Old memories. And symphonies.
Now I'm learning that, the pieces
of me are no longer me, but
Something before.
These pieces of me, are pieces,
Pieces of something more.
::: posted by Matthew at 6:50 PM
