BALD JASON'S GAY GOTH BOY BLOG
A Work in Progress…Welcome Back!
July says goodbye
heading east into August…
The truth is a lie
or at least it’s not honest…
For “the truth” is deceptive;
the term’s a mirage
which no contraceptive
confirms with applause.
Your secret is known
and your lies are the truth…
Turning flesh into stone
despised by my youth.
Written by Jason Wright
July 15, 2018
Afterimages
like looking into the sun
but I must relax and
be present in doctor’s office
before I can return
to the scene of my affliction.
Aaron, in a meeting
is parking the car
near Industrious Therapy
on 52nd Street
while I take the elevator to 6th floor
where I tap the screen and
scan my palm
before writing in waiting room
filled with news reports
which nobody wants to watch.
Skin doctor will observe
my latest continuous example
of flesh gone wrong
as I try to breathe
hopefully and without fear
of yesterday’s potential
for recurrent tragedy.
Help me.
Help me help myself.
Pet Shop Boys sing of another world
of homeless disco drama
in 1993 Little Caesars favorite
in my very theatrical headphones.
Putting pen to paper often helps
when I’ve exhausted other options.
Breathe. Listen. Write
as Aaron announced his ascension.
“Why’s It So Hard to Love One Another?”
Written by Jason Wright
July 5, 2018
In the theater
there is no escape
no respite
from disturbances
however minor
or intense.
I try to ground
try to limit the annoyance
and focus on the other worlds
flashing before my eyes
but it fades into a mishmash
of barely recognized words and actions
I feel nothing
except a mounting terror
that I will disappear again
and wake somewhere unknown.
I pull myself into the present
but I’m just as lost
as if I’d walked into
a completely different film.
I want them to rewind
but the projectionist
is an unforgiving dick
so I try to feel out
what I’ve missed
as I continue to struggle
with language and context.
I ask Aaron
where a character escaped to
but the movement returns and
I can’t hang on to the moment
and having asked twice
in his panic stricken voice
I argue internally –
what are we to do?
I turn from the screen
which has become a spoiler reel
which would ruin the film
when I finally get to experience it
in full.
I weep,
holding Aaron’s hand
as I’m left behind;
he wants to see it with me
but I’m not even there…
just a cacophonous shell
in which I hold my younger self
and try to convince him that
we are okay and that
I know how to get us home.
Outside,
confusion threatens destruction
but I know north from south
and east from west.
I head north
and then east
surrounded by revelers,
I make note of the Avenue names
until I reach Madison,
when I realize
I can navigate towards therapy,
where instinct will kick in
and return us safely to our home.
Written by Jason Wright
July 4, 2018
I was going to write to you
about the nightmares you inspired
but amidst distraction
I scrawled: 2/27
and I decided to follow that path instead.
I do that now.
I observe seemingly random behavior
and allow it to take me
somewhere unplanned
until I reach the end.
“This is not the end.”
A bumper sticker
on trashy artsy wall and:
“EAT MY PUSSY SO I KNOW IT’S REAL”
which strikes me as poetic
and insightful, rather than profane…
sad and beautiful
until Madonna’s Sex Book Mix
of Erotica starts playing
and I dance myself to distraction.
Written by Jason Wright
July 2, 2018
The train is parked in Harlem
where a desperate portion
of Trump’s thousands are now kept
in confusion, doubt and
heartbroken tragedy:
a trauma that will haunt them
for all of their days.
Is this how they were shipped here?
In crowded fear drenched train cars?
Where have I heard that before?
His overcompensating tower
shadows the city,
forever tainting the old neighborhood
of black spanish jazz renaissance…
How many other Cotton Clubs
cross red, white and blue
are infected with his orange sacrilege?
Written by Jason Wright
July 2, 2018
Poem written but untitled on July 2, 2018.
Title given July 11, when Green Day’s “American Idiot” single was reported to have re-entered British charts in response to Trump’s upcoming visit.
Air conditioned train car is nearly empty
but filled with conversation.
I wonder why it is
that they talk so loudly?
Impairment? Desperation to be heard?
An aching need to be continuously annoying?
They’re young;
perhaps mentally
they are still in
the noisy schoolyard
and must scream to be observed
in that wave of riotous infants…
Or maybe Mommy & Daddy
never noticed them at all
and they howl for attention,
love and affection
while Mommy
drinks herself
into a senseless stupor
and Daddy lies
forever
six feet under
unreachable.
Howl if you must.
I’m not bothered.
I just hope that one day THEY hear you.
Written by Jason Wright
July 2, 2018
The man on the train is
overly friendly,
he sings too loudly & is apparently
allergic to soap.
My fourth train today
in just three hours.
My music protects me.
The pen resurrects me.
As good humor returns
everything (again)
seems possible.
Sickness will return and
these assholes will rip my muted sanity
asunder…
But this is bliss
in the absence of victory…
This bristle brush crisp
of ever present consciousness –
scrubbed raw in effervescent spray
of flaming frothing humanity.
Written by Jason Wright
July 2, 2018
Crying baby
has yet to learn
the lost language
of abandonment
which must be taught to
more than two-thousand
changeling children
in perverse dollhouse
TV replicas of unloving
American schoolrooms.
The impossible pressing of flesh
that distance provides
may well be revelatory
but God bless those
who are spared such unwanted visions
of cursed solitude.
God bless those
who are forced by their innocence
to endure such disturbances;
such nightmarish realities
that they may forever struggle
to reclaim what has been
or soon will be
forever stolen
from them.
May they survive, prosper,
find comfort of some kind
in their shared experience,
those tear stained imperatives.
Written by Jason Wright
July 2, 2018