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.

Homeward Bound

Soaked through my own lather nearly half a century in the making, I slither down the block I grew up on, a bottle of Tanqueray in one hand and jug of Minute Maid OJ in the other.  I take a deep slug from each beverage and march on, my stomach blending the brew. Claustrophobia clouds my thoughts, though I'm not physically confined (it's more an emotional enclosure pressing in, clamping tighter).

The night has caught up with me on this particular stroll and I see a light flickering through the window of what used to be my upstairs bedroom, though the rest of the place remains bathed in darkness. I stand there transfixed near the driveway, drinking and dizzy: I haven't known the inhabitants of this hovel since my mother sold it almost 30 years ago.  The same is true of the neighborhood at large.  I have no reason to believe any of the former residents are still around, certainly their kids have since grown up with rug rats of their own now (some of my contemporaries may even have grandchildren).  Still, I have an overwhelming desire to run and hide, feeling the unseen eyes of those disco days following me from their perches all around.  I'm as nervous out in the open as I was when I lived here those last years (from Cuckoo's Nest to Raging Bull measured in cinematic time).

Terrified of ... what?  Or is it 'who?'  Anyone, everyone.  All those who see through me, past my calm facade into the madness within.  Who see my family and how we live(d).  I was taught well the power of shame, with a strength equalled by few other things in life, at least in my experience.  Mom was the headmaster for this lesson, Dad her fine example.

I reflect on this briefly before tossing the half empty gin bottle straight through that bedroom window where it explodes into a shower of glass and dull screams of confusion and shock from within.  Fuck 'em.  I'm the one out half a liter of booze.  You're welcome for the housewarming gift.  Drink hearty.

I resume my stroll on down the block, taking with me my orange juice still to enjoy.

And then the bottle strikes me squarely in the back of the head.  I turn passing out but there is no one there, no sounds of scuffling feet or other indication of life.  I see my bottle lying a few yards away as my knees buckle.

Fade to black.

Stucco Green

Blue-black thoughts down the hallway,

stucco green bleeds to braided frayed through smoke and sunflower prints of the front room.

As decaying paternal, maternal afterthoughts meld into the yellowed fabric, smoldering drowned.

I walk through with my head bowed.

The dining room spins 78 revolutions of hard plastic music playing holiday meals while jig saw puzzle pieces cover the table almost done.

I walk through with my head bowed.

The kitchen coffee pot boils avocado on the burner percolating over meat loaf

dying in the oven while government cheese lies waiting on the counter near cookie dough raw for lunch.

I walk through with my head bowed.

Breakfast nook misnomer, dinner occasionally and beverages more often.

I walk past with my head bowed.

Through the telephone hallway ...

... Past the door to the basement stairs - pungent with jarred pickles, peaches, pears;

heavy with homemade beer and wine, vacuum packed fermenting foretells of drunken harvests to come and cub scout meetings gone by in back.

... Past the master bedroom - king sized cocoon of festering parental psyches and Johnny nightly through the walls.

... Past the bathroom - haunted by the ghosts of childhood croup humidification and stroke-forged handicapped baths for Mom.

Past all that and up the stairs to suffocating sanctuary.

Tangerine shag with Farrah Cheryl Clash plastering walls stained of summer heat.

Eight track punk salvation and Royal keystroke catharsis feed my aspirations a feast of anthemic illusions, hard bitten fidelity.


Carroll Bangs Thompson summer nights awake in bed devouring to bursting words come to life and love of language unbounded.


I lay down with my head unbowed at last.