like flames.
matches and oil or kerosene or whatever and
our broken lives.
band aided together by soup kitchens and shelters.
"reserve a spot" they say
"go to GA" they say
they say a lot.
with palms upturned and sorry looks on sorry faces.
I sleep with 50 snoring men every fucking night.
i wake to grits.
i'm tired too. i want a fast car and a ride outta town to some hoboken dillinger/steinbeck shanty where the whiskey is water and i can dry out this year long methadone fix with a kiss from a brunette and a couple of old tears.
Fuck you and the red tape and the counseling sessions and the therapy. Fuck the shelters and the tenderloin and everything in SF smellling like piss.
I want something more.
they say 2 weeks.
2 weeks for an SRO.
Squalid Rotten Observatory.
needles in the hallway - "hon' watch out don't prick yourself"
I'm waiting for my own SRO, the only positive addition (and is it really positive?) is Lucky Girl sleeping her tender, alto snore next to my hairy jew chest (fo' real) and the quiet din of late nite TV and a rollie and a cup of tea.
I want safety so bad i can taste it. So, I -
do what they tell me
abstinence, therapy, couples counseling - I could write a goddamn book.
"How to get housed in SF"
I'm, so sorry Lucky I got us in this mess and I'm so sorry the only way out is a quick fix. I'm so fucking sorry i can't put everything back together again. not my life, not yours -
I'm sorry we had to give the rat away
sorry the young kid you met turned into a bitter old man with scars from benzo muggings and the audacity to stay apathetic.
i'm dying trying to put us all back together again.
every morning bus ride to the clinic the hustle for pins the lies the fake tears I can taste. we got it all kid, you and me
a blanket under the stars and a methadone script.
next week we'll be inside.
finally kid, finally.
you deserved so much better.