The Puget Sound of Wayward Wasting

I walk down

hallways

of smoke and stucco,



my kicks scuffing

frayed braids

of thrift store bounty.

I float past

the ringing

of party lines calling,

through kitchens

caught avocado

and dining rooms

born singing silent.


I echo down

basements

through backyards to alleys,

then trip on

corner curbs

to vacant lots

even the plum trees scorn.


A gray splash

of rain drops,

melting my remembrance

toward the Puget Sound

of wayward wasting

here

but no less wasting away.

Memories, like the horrors of my mind

My childhood memories

in the light

remain threadbare,

the core hiding hideous

in the muck

of my mind.

Still, they fracture

my senses broken

punched up from

those hidden bygones -

they illuminate

my present horrors

from down in

those dark recesses -

where I dare not follow

lest be consumed whole

and vanish into

the bad old past

for good.