Guts

I used to work on Capitol Hill,

fixing greasy tape decks

in a basement 

filled with solder smoke

and forklift exhaust.

This guy named Corey

used to come into the shop

with rare bootleg vinyl 

to sell for crack

when he came up short

between paydays.

I picked up a lot of good stuff

and fed his habit

with currency

he turned into

little off-white rocks

he liked to burn

deep into his 

stained glass lungs.

Urban alchemy.

They called him 

the Warehouse Rodent.

Jibb and Fish 

said he looked like a yeti

with his coarse beard

and missing teeth.

His smile 

looked like a 6-7-10 split.

I thought he looked like

Ben Gunn 

from Treasure Island.

Cory used to call me Hitler

over warm swill beers

in the back of the Comet Tavern,

the blackened pancreas of the city.

I never knew why.

Cory used to come to Model Rocket gigs

and request Back to the Beanstalk.

He knew it was about him

and his addiction.

He loved it,

the song and his addiction.

Cory finally got shit-canned

for throwing a pry bar 

at the warehouse manager.

He disappeared 

into the dark, wet guts of the city.

We're all 

slowly getting digested here.

I saw him 

one early summer morning

after a long summer evening.

I was coming up for air

from the Sunset basement speakeasy.

He was with some faded transients

gathered for a parley

behind a rancid dumpster.

I boozily called out his name

and gave him a surprised hug.

He smelled like shit and ammonia.

"You better get out of here.

This ain't any kind of place for you."

That's all he said.

I don't think he recognized me

in the small dead hours of the morning.

For some reason,

he came into my thoughts 

while riding on a bus 

going up the Battery Street Tunnel

into the city.  

The exhaust stained tile

of the tunnel's interior

reminded me of villi

in a small intestine.

Cory's been consumed,

digested and expelled as waste,

passed through the Battery Street Intestine,

right out the Alaskan Way Colon,

through the Harbor Island Anus

into to the rainbow slick of Elliot Bay.

We're all slowly being digested here.