Come back inside

"I was wrong about the being homeless."

That's how I was going to start this message last week.  

I guess I've been having some block preventing me from saying anything lately.

It must be because I've been saying it out loud.

Before I left for Chicago Cynthia asked me to do that poems for strangers thing with her in Griffith Park.

Halfway through the night someone yelled, "Jonathan Gold just died!" 

Just to give you a time reference.

There was a woman who asked for a poem to be what it wants to be. 

Naturally I took the opportunity to pour myself out.

The last few lines are:

your lids the closed doors to the house I live in

I will find somewhere to sleep

I will live outside

After that I got on a plane.  

Last Saturday he called.  It was fucked.

I told James I needed to do something fun so 

the day wouldn't just be about this bullshit.

He said sure whatever you want.

It wasn't the worst thing that happened that day.  

Somehow James fixed that.

That night he ran out of the house.  

I was so fucking scared with him being out there at night in a neighborhood like this.

My best friend in high school was mugged in broad daylight.  He came to my house sobbing.  Ashamed.

It's not fair to put that shit on James.  But I love him, you know?

It feels sometimes like I'm taking something away from him by giving him my friendship.
Other times it feels like he wants to know how to receive it.

This week was pretty hard at work.

Five panic attacks.  So much sadness.

One girl came in crying about her dad not answering her phone calls.

She was so hurt she wouldn't be able to go to FAFSA night -she needed his 

tax info to complete the financial aid apps.  Her mom was deported when she was four.

"I just wanna go to college," she said as I awkwardly tried to console her.

It would have been great if James would notice me feeling fucked up.

It would be dope if he looked over and saw my face and said, "You ok?  Wanna talk? Wanna hug?"

And you.  

Major shit was happening this year.

You disappeared when my dad died.

Now you're scrolling through depop and sitting in that back room at 

Silverlake Presbyterian wondering if anyone thinks your pants look good.

You're broken, aren't you?

Must feel like shit.

Mac, you go ahead and preach.

This shit has to end here, I'm afraid.

Any more and I'll make myself throw up.

Peace be with you,

It's me