Month: June 2018

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Clocksucker

Before I leave
but after I wake
there is an overwhelming terror;
a senseless type of heightened stress
triggered by my inner ticking clock,
which never trusts
and fears interruption.

After I leave
but before I arrive
there is inspiration,
analysis and exploration,
a journey into self
where understanding
will one day hopefully reside –
this contemplation is nearly always
external, as it’s flooded out of my brain
down through my fingertips
thumbtacked onto paper pages –
an activity I have often despised
which has become my truest salvation.

In the breazy 70 sunlight
city streets of New York
my indoor apathy
is burned away to cinders…
and I can smile
at the rainbow swirls
projected before me,
which originate in last night’s misery
once refracted through the murky depths,
the prism of a cuckold’s constant lust
which transform that sickening nauseating
sensation into chemical reactions
associated with sensuality;
the impotent erection
of the overstimulated
yet never truly satisfied bottom.

The reasoning behind transitions
is all but lust

– FUCK –

is all but LOST amidst an intensely
brief panic when I lose track of my letters,
memory once again escaping from the prison of my mind –

How could I have
forgotten this horror?

Is this to be my future hell?

WRITE IT DOWN
SO YOU CAN’T FORGET!

Time for tests
and uncomfortable questions.

A lack of specificity
resembles the oft forgotten pattern.

Not names but films,
not train letters but direction…

This is NOT like
THE ME
that I have known
until this recent phenomena.

Perfect score on memory test
at therapist’s office
though there is visual spatial strangeness –
my cube doesn’t begin with a square
and my clock is a Salvador Dali sketch:

“The Persistence of Memory”
becoming an ironic and completely menacing title.

Nothing to worry about, she says
and I hear these words,
like poetry.

Tip of the Tongue Syndrome and
lexical access occurs in stages…

I remain fearful but also amused,
inspired and enamored with her decisional words.

Our time is up
despite the continued ticking
of my misshapen clock.

Written by Jason Wright
June 26, 2018

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Toxic Figures

I play a numbers game
in hopes of recalling the percentages,
the statistics and rates and proportions
of a love affair between two unknowns.

What is the sum total
of a failed relationship?

There were seventeen summers
before that summer when we met,
and that was seventeen summers ago.

But we were
both of us
older than seventeen
when we met
and made love for nearly five hours,
on the eighth day
of the seventh month
of the two-thousand-and-first year.

We spent nine weeks together;
four of them happily.

I once waited seven days in his bedroom,
reading five-hundred-seventy-six pages
of “The Prince of Tides”…
before I drove one hundred and forty-one miles,
back to Ann Arbor
and waited to be betrayed.

Betrayal arrived on my twenty-seventh birthday,
the twelfth day of the eighth month,
but I wouldn’t learn the truth
for several more encounters.

On August thirteenth, which fell
on the second day of the week,
my stomach became partially paralyzed,
and I’ve been sick every day since then.

Before he told me the truth,
he sent me flowers,
made love to me and tortured me with lies
and abandonment…
those flowers were like perfumed poison
when I learned the truth
and saw them wilting in my bedroom.

The last time we had sex
was August twenty-fourth.

The first day that we met
there were fireworks; beautiful bursts
of poisonous flowers,
omens which lit up our lives
and then faded all too quickly…
but our lust prevented us from seeing
this prophetic truth
as anything other than
celebratory pyrotechnics.

Numbers are often deceptive because
they don’t truly reveal the truth
with the accuracy that they are ascribed;
they don’t calculate the geometry of emotion
or the calculus of grief and lust and shame.

Every number that walks through the door
can determine our differential and
satisfy our algebraic need for multiples;
while concurrently erasing the totality of truth;
simultaneous equations of salvation and destruction.

Numbers, you’ll learn, can be vicious…
because numbers will often lie.

Written by Jason Wright
June 26, 2018

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Three Imaginary Men

A ride on the 1 train
to “No Friends” operetta,
1 day after a ride on the A train
filled with naked imaginary men…
on the way home from the village
where extraordinary naked men used to die.

This writing calms me after distressing Anna voicemail;
a horrible miscommunication which I must correct.

Breathe. 18 stops to relax. I can message her when I arrive.

Now, begin again. Tell me about the men.

There were several fully clothed
but naked men
on the subway yesterday.

A sturdy father,
a seemingly kindly grandpa man
and a 20 something –
all of them with beautiful, dark skin.

As a game
to escape the crowded
heated madness,
I undressed them all.

I sized them up
and I devoured them,
before spitting them all out
when studly sturdy father man
vividly became a father again.

Though just after that happened
he winked at me,
subtly rubbed his crotch
and sent me another sidelong glance;
an invitation to continue.

Except that more than 24 hours later,
17 stops have flown by
and I must away to my partner and friends,
leaving my imaginary men behind
as I immerse myself
in the imaginations of others.

Written by Jason Wright
June 13, 2018

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