Author: Jason Wright

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The Whale Trilogy

1

Pain radiates
through smoothly shaven flesh,

Unseen skull
in burning wrapping paper,

I skitter to share
what it seeks to prevent…

The years are a bitch
and I ache to betray her…

For words in this gloaming
are enabled by night…

Even when tinged
with the heartbreak of sorrow…

Thoughts freely roaming
until morning sight…

Might seem unhinged
come the light of tomorrow.

2

There was a morning, a day, a hot afternoon
where I thought my life would change…
where my wandering
had finally altered my direction…
but it wasn’t meant to be.
Perhaps every day is like this for others…
but the day I am thinking of,
the day of sex before the sermon,
I believed that I’d finally arrived
somewhere I was meant to be,
only to learn across the years
that I would seldom ever return,
and I wish I would have known
how special that time was,
how precious those moments.

It’s altogether different
yet somehow the same
when watching you
watching whales…
when the music you share
nearly kills me with it’s mournful beauty –
giving me fever chills and death spasms
before my fever breaks
and I’m allowed to dance
in the trance of our shoegazing
dream pop.

In the fever
all that could comfort me
was the seemingly old
but younger woman
with the ghost on the porch…
An echo of that first reading
joining my pain across two different eras.

3

The first would have been discovery,
and on the very brink of puberty
as I stumbled through that sea of trees
to find a validating fiction.

And now the feeling: brotherly,
yet still cherry stink of nudity
as I’m humbled by our deities
to bind an animated friction.

And the proof
it is not fair
but the truth
is he’s out there
begging for money,
trading sex for drugs hungry
while the whales circle round us
tasting sweetly table scraps.

And the lie
if there is one
is that life
is a shotgun
because life hasn’t drowned us
baby please don’t go like that.

Written by Jason Wright
April 19, 2018

For Sean (Mobley) and Steve and Anthony.

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Drugs Are Quick

In snowcapped Vermont
artists interpret MADNESS
in nine songs that jangle
pleasantly through
my short term memory,
where they fade away to nothing,
save vaguely happy impressions
of experiences I wish I could hang on to
for longer than Ambien will allow.

Xanax RATTLES in my pocket
as seemingly female
child rearing occupant
makes other passengers
noticeably uncomfortable…
the smell of talcum powder
makes me think of boyhood erections
and vaginal cancer.

The sound of “Kryptonite” comes from
3 Doors Down
and I’m dragged back to San Francisco
drunken backseat passenger ride
from one unknown location to another.
THE MAN beside me is wearing my black clothing,
my leather collar,
while I am wearing someone else’s dress…

What ever happened to that Dorothy looking shit?

So intimate to see him wearing my goth rocker drag
while I feel the cool autumnal chill
on unwieldy knees which have never felt more naked.

…My Head Is Spinning…

Gay gangster rap pours into my brain
as latex allergy flashback rips me in half
on preacher boy’s beautiful blonde cock….
and that last time was totally worth it.

The Midrin has thankfully done it’s ruby stained work;
Thank you Peter Murphy (The Scarlet Thing is actually in me)
and I’m dancing at the Kit Kat Klub
where all orientations
are surprisingly segregated
when angry heterosexual cis-woman
calls me a faggot
before I turn to make out
with her stupidly aroused boyfriend
just to spite her.

Off the train and I stop at random village pharmacy
for cough drops
before Jumpin’ Jack Frost
tells me we’re done:
just 2 more meetings and out…
I’m lucky it’s still Tuesday
because I’m gonna need a drink.

“Do you want to begin?”

Back in the dress I wore
so preacher boy could see me naked,
and I have no idea that 18 years later,
on the opposite side of the country,
I’ll still be scrawling about him singing
“Bewitched, Bothered & Bewildered”,
“When You Wish Upon a Star”
and assorted unspeakable lyrics
that he traced across
my unguarded vulnerable ambition.

This part sucks
but it’s just a draft
and doesn’t need to be as perfect
as Cocaine Sex in
countless naked backroom dance parties…
bodies writhing in dark congress,
riding waves in darkened corners –
pain, disappointment, lust & loneliness
expressed in acid light,
opium torture and heroin bliss.

Feed me water.
Slake my thirst.
Let them drink wine!

Just give me cum, prayer, piss and whiskey.

Written by Jason Wright
March 6, 2018

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DEVASTATION

Kissing Josh. September 1998.

When I met him,
a prisoner’s attempt to break free.

My relationship.
His deniability.

He was so forward the night we met.

Terrifying.

Couldn’t see he was teetering on the brink
just to kiss me.

For Josh –
Who’s kiss I’ll never forget,
who’s random phone calls haunt me to this day
and who still has plenty of magic
(even if “The Magician” doesn’t recognize it as such).

I scrawled this in my notebook on the train sometime last week and just got around to transcribing it here. I hope it finds you well.

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LOST

The pained expression
as he wrapped his arms
around his head,
as if to hide
from the words he knew he must say;
the risk he must take.

The tears that fell
from his beautiful eyes
as he confessed
that the heart of us had been lost.

The strength that I
had never possessed in the past,
unfamiliar as it surged to the fore…

Was it possible
that I had built a temple
out of my shattered childhood
only to have him ripped away from me?

The way we barely breathed
as we collapsed in random bursts of suffering,
exquisite,
aching pain of love gone wrong,
gone sour,
gone ignored too long
and now barely recognizable.

We lay together that night,
together,
yet cleaved in two.

Yet we never degraded,
never cursed,
never accused,
never,
never,
never completely surrendered to shame or fear.

This hardship,
this torment was honest
and brave,
and long overdue;
I know that now
and I thank him
even as I yearn for my other half.

For 10 days
and 11 nights
I have fought for
the mere hope,
the slightest chance
that a lost romance might be resurrected.

I don’t want to be crushed
by the loss of him
or bereft of his touch.

I fight for my own survival
with lessons that may save me,
yet beyond myself
I yearn for the forgotten look in his eyes,
the curve of his lips,
the taste of his joy, satisfaction, surprise
and that virginal lust for passions met in kind.

I want to give him
what in ignorance
I have so long denied him,
he that I treasure most,
he that I cherish above all others.

His need,
his confession,
his longing has inspired a sea change
within me.

And if he might only look
there in my culpable remorseful eyes,
perhaps he will find what it is
that he can no longer find on his own.

With every glance I seek to say:

I am here.
And I love you.
And I am in love with you.
And I curse the day
that I ever made you feel
you weren’t worthy of my best.

I will extend myself to the best of my ability,
beyond what I have done
for any other love,
any other lover,
any other man, woman, parent or friend.

This
I swear
with a glad heart.

For you have made me a better man,
and a greater man than you would be an impossible quest
that I would never dream of
or wish to accept.

Find me Aaron.
Find me.

I am waiting in the dark
to lead us into the light.

Written by Jason Wright
August 4, 2016

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Fragments of Magic

“There were angels dancing at the Ritz”
on Devils Night I’m sure…

We spoke of church and God and pricks;
We’ve not been shy or pure.

We spoke of all our wicked tricks,
and mine outnumbered others.

We walked as wraiths
on River Styx
unencumbered by our lovers.

Your poison:
blend of gin and tonic;
mine you paid the price…

We drank it deep,
October Brew
was whiskey (fruit and spice).

Men from Barcelona laughed
as speeds of words were changed.

The ghosts we summoned from the past
to find ourselves explained.

———————

And still buzzing and eager
with all I hadn’t guessed,
brimming with the innocent malice
of covetousness,
blushing and bursting
at our sacred sabbat of salacity,
Ripe with long delayed spells
of audacity,

while finally finding my way
and understanding this puzzle piece
of this beautifully haunted city…
Cocooned in the simple joys
of communication, connection, lust and friendship…

with our ravenous unending thirst deceptively sated,
we headed down the yearning road
together.

(a whispered incantation “for curing hungry lovers”),

I don’t really know if you realize
how much I wanted to kiss you.

You sitting across from me
with that sexy half smile…

You,
asking if you could touch it?

If I’d been single
I’m sure I’d have kissed you then,
which in the moment
was brilliantly confusing.

I had to look away.
I couldn’t even look at you.
But I couldn’t stop smiling either.

That I managed to not kiss you
while glowing brightly
on Southern Comfort
and admitted appetite,
with the words you still refused to say…
well, apparently I have more self control
than I ever dared dream.

Perhaps you do too.

I freely admit this golden moment of desire
was a guilty craving pleasure come morning;
a cherished transgression
for which I’ll always be grateful.

You walked me to my train;
a perfect gentleman.

What a mystical happenstance
is this friendship that’s found us.

Thank you for your honesty
and your restraint.

Thank you for your confession
and your company.

And thanks for making the fantasy into flesh,
while keeping the flesh a complete mystery…

That’s a much more impressive trick
than any of mine.

Written by Jason Wright
November 5, 2015

For Christopher Tefft

With Christopher Tefft. October 30, 2015.
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OUR CONVERSATION

She thanks me
for something insightful
that I said to her on Saturday,
and I know that we’re sparking
off of each other.
It’s mutual.
It’s not one sided
or selfish.

“Tell me you,” she says,
and I like that she skipped the word “about”.

“What do you want to know? I’m an open book.”
I tell her.

“What do you love?”,
She asks me this when most people ask: “What do you do?”

I’m surprised and without having to think I tell her what I know:

“I love Aaron.”

I say this
because that’s the truth,
but it’s not the whole truth;
it saves me from thinking
about how closed off I am…
But the way we speak
it’s impossible to leave it at that
and the question lingers.

“Why do you love Aaron?”

I tell her about what I was when I met Aaron,
which is also true, but not the whole truth,
and then we’re out of time.

On the train I’m compelled to answer again;
to answer more completely.

What do you love?

Joy. Creation. Inspiration. Poetry. Sex. Love. Honesty. Connection. Conversation. Meditation. Self discovery. Therapy. Listening. Communication. The freedom that comes with sharing one’s pain. Being heard and acknowledged.

These answers are wholly true,
yet I can understand how I could respond
by naming Aaron,
because he successfully relates to all of these things,
and that’s why I truly love him.

Also,
with Aaron,
with the people I meet
and surround myself with,
I have this sense of breathing rarefied air.
It’s not just that they are successful…
It’s that they’re creative,
and creation inspires me in every aspect of my life.
That’s something I love that’s never been articulated.

The words flow out of me
and I know they are the right answer
to the question that surprised me.

I turn it around in my brain.

What do you fear?

Deception. Broken trust. Violence. Illness. Inaction. Failing. Missing something. Things I don’t understand or comprehend. Confusion. Weakness.

While writing this I’m attacked
on the Northbound A Train.

I’m nudged, hit,
my headphones are ripped off my head
and some guy calls me a “Fucking queen.”

I laugh at this though he hurt me.
I continue to type.
I’m filled with emotion and my hands are shaking
but if I stop I’m going to lose it:

Shock. Heartbeat. Spark. Eat? Jason or jason? Attack. Why the relation? “Fucking Queen.” Sorry, but not sorry. Not insulted.

The man gets off the train at 145 and part of me is in shock from the attack but I’m distracted by what I wrote:

Violence followed by thoughts of food.
Was that me?
Or was that the part of me
that remembers
the perpetually recurring loss of my innocence?
What does that mean?
I need to talk about this in therapy.

I was so afraid in those few minutes on the train.
I didn’t know what to do
but I think my laughter
may have saved me.

Laughter can do that.

I’m not sure if it’s better or worse
that what I wrote scared me far more
than the man who wanted to hurt me.

An unspoken question:
What do you want?

Clarity. Continuity. Understanding. Safety. Assurance. Support. Guidance. Answers. More questions. More time with Aaron. More time with friends.

And more conversations
like the ones that inspired this.

Written by Jason Wright
JULY 9, 2015

for Alexandra Silber

  • Note: I suspect the punctuation in this is all wrong, but I’ve kept it to myself long enough.

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B.I.O. of a Nameless Lover:

I met you…
millennial,
and we were so young.

You made me alive
and then left me stung.

I loved you for years
then we drifted apart.

Time heals all wounds
yet ripped us apart.

In twenty-eleven,
long after we met…

We randomly crashed
and then cashed in our debt…

But the lust that we shared
and for years we had held…

Was long past it’s date;
by a kiss we were quelled.

Impunity spared us
in memories wasted…

Like missed opportunity:
that’s how you tasted…

In October
bedroom / shower / stairwell…

First time we fucked
was bitter farewell…

Bitter and sweet
and fragrant and gleaming…

Our lust disappointed
compared to our dreaming…

Although we played
quite well in our fashion…

Eleven years time
had drained us of passion.

It was love and was sex
and was brutal and sadness…

Was whatever survived
and revived from our ashes.

And we never talked again
after that day…

You turned to leave
and then I moved away…

Now we never speak
for our love has been strictured…

And all I have left
now of us is our pictures.

Written by Jason Wright
October 28, 2013

For Anonymous: You know who you are and that’s quite enough.

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Sudden Strangers

September 24, 2011

Such beautiful people;
remarkably strong…

They don’t live forever
and never stay long…

They brush up against you
then kiss you goodbye…

And that’s if you’re lucky
enough to know why.

They make you feel something
and then disappear…

Their absence is painful;
their presence was dear…

This price we all pay
is a heartrending cost…

The feelings we feel
when loved ones are lost.

Written By Jason Wright
October 12, 2011

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Momentous Moments

The crow at your door
surprised me…
a vision…

Could not comprehend
it’s ghost like precision…

Crows can be murder
or rapture or rotten…

We entered beneath it
and soon twas forgotten.

I was in your apartment
and very much single…

When the spark in your eyes
made my skin start to tingle…

Though we weren’t alone
and we weren’t together…

I was laying there
hard
and wanting
and clever…

The throbbing
was robbing of fear and of doubt…

The sex of your eyes
made me long to find out
just how you would taste
and I couldn’t hold back…

And alone for just moments
I pounced and reacted
with hunger and lust
at the sights set before me…

You tasted amazing…
You tasted of glory…
You tasted of chance…
You tasted of trust…

But the moment
it faded
and it turned to dust…

Yet within me it lingers…
I know what the crow meant…

For I remain rapt
in the taste of that moment.

Written by Jason Wright
September 20, 2011

For Tom: more than a year after the fact.

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Art is a Mirror

Wasting away…
Ten years lost to illness.

The moments
between us
are filled with such stillness…

Cherished,
Exchanged,
Sharing our stories…

With chapters
in common
and frank allegories…

He gives it to me
and I’m touched
without touching…

He whispers to me
and I’m flushed
without blushing…

He leaves me
with passion
transcended to form…

The canvas
is thunder;
his heart is the storm.

The sea of emotion
by these colors rendered;

the work of a man
who never surrendered,

The man in the painting
who’s insides are bruised…

Is haunted by faces
that used and abused.

Some of the faces
are drugs that he’s taken…

Others are ghosts
that still leave him shaken…

Some are illusions,
Others invented,
Some are the sins that he’s never repented.

Others are faces
of boys he’s not dated…

He thought that he had
but they really translated
into nights meaning nothing
except what he’s losing…

For riches imagined
and instrument moving…

The face is the horror
of waiting untasted…

The face is my mirror…

The face of time wasted.

Written By Jason Wright
August 14, 2011

For: Johnny Vaughn, who’s artwork inspired it.

Johnny V passed away a little over 6 years after I wrote this. He was a caring friend when I deeply needed one. He and I had shared history but his adventures had been with people who were only ever on my periphery and I cherished each and every story that he gifted me with. He was also a brilliant painter and gave me the work that inspired this poem, though I also put in as many references to his tales that only he might recognize. I’m gratified that he read this and had such a positive reaction.

Rest in Peace brother.