Author: Jason Wright

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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.
Posted on

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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Mystery of Tina

The first time I saw you was at a wedding
and you were stunning.

Not just beautful.
Not just good looking
and not only pretty.
Stunning.

Like meeting a movie star.
A movie star married to one of your favorite cousins.
A movie star married into your favorite branch of your family tree.
A movie star who wasn’t just amazing to look at,
but who smiled and spoke to me
in ways no previous “cousin-in-law” had done up to that point.

You were interesting, down to earth, surprising,
and only speaking to you for a few minutes I sensed a great depth.

Over the years we really haven’t spent much time together
but almost every time we speak there’s some new glimmer
of what sparkles within you, just underneath the surface.

A darkness and a mystery, a gleaming otherness;
seemingly fragile, but that’s likely an inaccurate perception.

Perhaps it’s despair or courage?
Perhaps it’s pain or a haunting melody that only you can hear?
Perhaps it’s all of these things or none of them,
but it is there,
whatever it is,
behind your eyes,
and whatever questions are answered
and asked behind the masks
that you appear to wear…

Those mysteries make you approachable, magical and breathtaking.

Christopher chose well.

Written by Jason Wright
June 4, 2015

For Tina White,
because she requested it.

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The Kiss

Saturday.
The worst day.
The day of disappointment.
The day I got lost
and almost fell apart.

“What’s going on?”

His kiss was resisted,
and then passionate,
and wanting for more…

Sex can often free me from this state
but there was no time
and the kiss was enough
to shake me free,
long enough to help me see.

It’s not that there weren’t rough patches;
it’s just that his kiss allowed me to see reality.

That kiss woke me from my fucked up slumber.

Aaron’s kiss brought me back to life.

Written by Jason Wright
May 19, 2015

Posted on

Walking Away

Some days are harder than others.

Some days his voice is so loud
that I can’t hear or feel anything else
without turning myself inside out.

It never lasts for more than an hour or two
(often times less than that)
but in that time he makes sure
that I have his undivided attention.

This can be problematic
and disorienting
when I’m in public.

Our communication can never last for long
because I don’t have the reserves.
It’s too all consuming to sustain itself.

He doesn’t like to be ignored
and I don’t do it on purpose
but it takes a lot of energy
and skills that I’ve not yet completely developed.

And paying attention to him can be dangerous,
but so can ignoring him. Clearly.

Sometimes he wants me to throw all of my food away.
He’s jealous, I think.

Some weekends, everything I plan on
falls apart because of him.

The way that I’m falling apart,
but seldom admit.

Every day that I don’t cut is a victory.
I know this.
But it doesn’t feel like the truth.
It feels like cowardice.

If I could just cut him out of me…
I’d be dead.

That’s the problem.

I think I’m beginning to hate him.
Hate myself.
Because he’s keeping me prisoner.
I missed the party on Friday,
the opera on Saturday,
the walk in the park today
because of his need…
and my aversion.

These feel like failures or defeats,
but is it a failure if it keeps you alive?

I try to talk myself through it
but my feelings are complicated
and often contradictory.

I don’t think anyone around me understands
and why should they?
It hurts being so alone though.

It’s just him and me.
Like when she abandoned me. Us.

There are people that love me,
which is incredible really,
because there’s a big piece of myself that’s missing.

He’s completely disconnected from me
and when that connection is made
the spark of that moment is blinding…
but nobody gets to see it but me.

Or maybe I’m wrong and people do see him,
or the absence of him?

Maybe people love me because of him.

I don’t really know.

All I know is that he’s closer to me today
than he usually is
and I’m alone
and I don’t think that’s a good idea.

Time to go for a walk.

Written by Jason Wright
March 29, 2015

Posted on

Randomness (sometime around March 15 of 2015)

Earlier, Aaron and I were walking, hand in hand. He was on his way to work and I wanted to part ways at the grocery store but he wanted to keep holding my hand so we walked on until we did eventually part.

It’s so nice to not be in pain. Things aren’t perfect but the not being in pain is very appreciated.

Later…my stomach was worse than it has been in weeks. I’m completely wiped out but my brain still plays connect the dots with circular thoughts. I like that line. It just sprang out of me but could be used in a poem.

The other day Aaron said he didn’t know who Annie Lennox was. We have almost completely different musical backgrounds so I shouldn’t be surprised. I was aware of her in my youth but the first time I think I really fell in love with her was when I saw the film “Eward II”; she wanders into the gay film and sings Cole Porter’s “Ev’ry Time We Say Goodbye”; I didn’t know it was Cole Porter at the time or that he was gay until much later when I saw the film De-Lovely, which features John Barrowman in a cameo role playing a character named Jack: this always seems like an untold side story of Jack Harkness to me. Anyways…the Annie Lennox version of Cole Porter’s tune stayed with me long after the film (which I now own on DVD). Once, on a date with this guy Rudy, who has been lost to time, I heard Annie’s rendition again but this time it was in “Prelude to a Kiss” (another gay friendly movie from a gay writer); I bought the soundtrack the next day.

There’s a fictional movie, based on the writer of “Prelude to a Kiss” called The Dying Gaul; I remember that I liked the deleted scenes a lot and wish they’d been in the film…and that the film was far darker than I expected it to be. I should rewatch it someday. The writer / director, Craig Lucas also wrote Longtime Companion and I remember I liked a lot of what the film had to say.

I don’t like being so drained of food and energy and my throat hurts from all the…I don’t even want to go there. I just took a shower. Our shower doesn’t always work but they’re trying to fix it. Tonight I got lucky and it worked beautifully. I shaved though that wasn’t my intent. I sang Cole Porter’s tune in the shower and thought about the lyrics:

“There’s no love song finer
But how strange the change from major to minor
Ev’ry time we say goodby.”

Like when Aaron & I say goodbye. Love that song. I remember Janice commenting on the key shift and liking it.

Edward the II tells a love story between Edward II & Piers Gaveston; it’s based on the play by Christopher Marlowe. The film is stunning and the gay pride opposite of it’s representation in the Mel Gibson epic “Braveheart”; I actually love both and view Edward II as a sort of more honest sequel. Tilda Swinton was in the film Edward II. The film is highly stylized and so is almost everything I’ve ever seen her in. I like her. She did some strange performance art piece not long ago where she was on display in a glass box in a museum? Did I just imagine that? lol. I used to have a lot of artful pictures taken of myself. I have tons of nudes; some of them are more graphic than others…and I dislike that I don’t have them on display anymore but I’m not sure where I could post them. Perhaps I’ll start a CENSORED photo album on facebook. Maybe the censored aspect could make some sort of statement. I find the censorship of nudity to be ridiculous and insulting.

Anyways. I’m exhausted and I’ve done very little. Maybe I should sleep.

Edit: This rambling was first written a long while back but because I was forced to save it in a collection on Facebook it says that it was last edited on March 15, 2021. But it was “liked” by Kelli Parker, who died November 25, 2020. It was also liked by Serena Shoshana, who I was friends with only briefly, when she went out with a friend of mine in 2015. So this was likely written in 2015. March of 2015.

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Over Wright

Inside impossible 3D movie
Aunt Thelma speaks of trips taken with her parents
who were my grandmother’s parents
though I didn’t think that in the dream.

I watch the footage around me
as it skitters through different years
until I see a faded image which may have
been myself dancing (only it’s not)
which I notice as I approach
after shouting out “It’s Me!”
only there I am, walking away
because he will not go to camp.

I walk up beside him
and take his hand (or is it mine?)
which he can’t feel
because he’s stuck in the past
and I’m merely a projection of some kind,
a rejection of some mind,
but I tell him:

“I know you can’t feel me,
but I’m here and you need to hang on…
because your life will get better.”

I really say that,
like I’m some fucked up Youtube
Stranger Days scifi
gay teen After School Special.

Thieving assholes
attempt to steal retro-futuristic
gizmo thingy,
source of my cross time travel bullshit…
but I won’t let them escape –
I tackle –
and they go down harder than I ever have.

A young older man
who looks like a younger David W (not my dad)
tells me that he’s amazed by the season finale of “The Good Fight”
but he won’t watch any longer because he’s turning off the service….

He wears a black leather jacket.
I tell him I’ll send him copies.

The two girls he’s with are pressing on me;
making fun of me
but I know they’re doing this because they like me
so I tell them I’m gay,
that I suck cock and to leave me alone.

I walk away but look back and tell them not to behave
like it’s a disappointment because it’s fucking awesome!

They regret and search for me (the 3 of them)
but I hide.

The bouncy castle must be a hell of a place to work.

Later, on the farm, Mrs. Brooks visits me,
asking if I’ll record something for her too,
a program that I can’t remember now.

When she arrived I was looking at roses that I’d planted
in the left back garden corner
where I’ve dreamt of soft core porn adventures
and experienced them as well….
I had been planting seeds using a gun
with special bullets that turned themselves
down into the ground and then released the seeds…
but hating the use of the gun I stopped firing and poured
the open shells around the base of a tree – that’s when she arrived.

I read of such differing things in a newly Dusted book.

I asked if she’d like to take a walk
and she said she couldn’t go far
but we walked around and past the longer than usual
front of my family’s home.

I woke, worried for Aunt Thelma.

In the dream, she was on a diet but had
given in to temptation.

As I sussed out the contents of my head,
I remembered the hot guys
who have no dicks
but are tops (with their Thunder Sticks)
and are somehow more beautiful
despite the seeming flaw of their condition.

This isn’t poetry
but fuck it.

Written by Jason Wright
March 10, 2018

Posted on

Northbound (NSFW)

On the one train in Manhattan a song,
a lyric makes me think of San Francisco.

I’m shaving in Paul’s bathroom
while man I met at Radical Fairy drag party is watching me.

I’m nervous.
He’s so beautiful
and several years older than me;
he’s 30 & I’m 26.

It seemed like a lot then.
Maybe because the last guy I loved
was 9 years younger than him;
they had the same name.

I cut myself as I often did back then.
A tear of blood dripping down my face
and before I can react
blonde ken doll man moves in
and purposefully licks me clean.
Sacrament.

I remember wondering if he was crazy.
Blood. San Francisco.
I want to throw him against the wall
so I can penetrate him and understand.
Is there pain in his eyes or lust?
Possibly both.

I don’t remember what happened next
but the next song is beginning
and I imagine kissing him,
shaking him…

“Are you crazy?”
“Do you want to die?”

A side thought where I’m less sympathetic
and I give him the degradation I imagine him craving.
Strip. Kneel. Baptism in piss and cum.
Fucking him mercilessly.

The thought passes and I wonder at his state of mind.

He was newly out then and haunted by his past;
“But I’m a Cheerleader” was the wrong movie to watch;
it filled him with memories that made him sad.
I think he was reading “The Vampire Armand”;
I was reading “Merrick”.
His parent was seemingly gravely ill.
They called during our first sexual encounter
to request his presence at the hospital.
He talked them out of it.
I tried to talk him into it,
but instead he said “Damn” while I bit his nipple.
I remember telling him that his asshole tasted amazing
and then him asking if there were any that didn’t…
and I wonder if he ever found out?
A taste test with naked men all standing in a row.

He fucked me in that livingroom.
It was days later.
After he’d taken me to a leather bar and spoke of dangerous sex,
but nothing about the boyfriend he’d confess to later.
Devastating at the time.
I wanted to be his.
Just a crazy dream I guess.
Lies and dreams and strange encounters that I still cherish.

We’re friends on Facebook.
I don’t think of him often
and I’ve not seen him in person in over 14 years.

I’m 40 now and I’ve been fucked at least 6 times in the last week.
My partner is curious about why I’m so frenzied of late and I honestly don’t know;
I’m sure it’s nothing to do with this…
but past sexual encounters fill my thoughts of late.
This is but the latest example.

Walking from the train I ran up to my place to write this down.
I don’t know why.
It seems less important now.
I need to get groceries.

Written by Jason Wright
January 8, 2015

Posted on

Not Only Lonely

I’m alone
and I’m lost
and completely unsure…

Chilled to the bone
and the cost is absurd…

But the feeling won’t last;
I’m stronger than this.

Even when I don’t have someone to kiss.

So I take a few pictures,
I write a few lines,
I draw and I listen
and I change over time.

I document smile
and tear and word spoken.

I’m sick every day
but I’m not yet broken.

And I feel the day change
into something surmisable…

Life can be death
but is often survivable.

Written by Jason Wright
November 29, 2014

Posted on

Relinquishment

The rain on the leaves
and the wet sidewalk
were like one of my favorite paintings.

The fragmented message coming through
was a surprise and a new opportunity –
new experiences and new destinations –
all that I wanted this day to be about,
only brought to perfection by sharing it with you.

Your voice was distracted…
maybe the slightest bit annoyed.

Maybe that’s not quite right,
but there was something going on beneath the surface.

Maybe you dreaded hearing from me now.
Maybe you didn’t want to have this conversation.
Or maybe you were just distracted by your students.
I don’t know.

The show I’d read about was at 7:30;
you thought I couldn’t be there in time but I was only 6 blocks away.

You thought I wouldn’t want to go,
so why the offer? I find so much of it confusing.

You said the ticket was mine until 6pm,
but at 6:02 (when I finally got through)
you were taking someone else instead.

Should I ask you to ask them to relinquish their ticket.
The ticket that was mine…except that it never was.

You ask if I should ask them to relinquish the ticket.

Relinquish is a verb that means to voluntarily cease to keep or claim;
to give up.

So the ticket was given but not to me;
it was not mine to keep or claim despite the promise of 6pm.

And now I would have to beg someone to relinquish what should never have been theirs
so that what never was mine could fulfill the promise of last night’s imaginings.

Standing there, in the rain, cold and wet in that beautiful painting
I wept when you said you’d call me back.

I wasn’t sure where I should go.
Maybe there was still a chance?
Coffee shop on the corner.
Hot food and cold peppermint.
And the return call letting me know
that you couldn’t reach her.

She was on her way
with the ticket that I’d been promised
on a rare day when I wasn’t vomiting too much
and had travelled through tunnels to reach
the famous Central Park.

Did I want to meet her? You asked me.
No. I didn’t want to meet the woman
who would sit with you 6 blocks
from where I sat in the coffee shop.
No. That would hurt too much.
I didn’t want to cry in this crowded little beverage store.

I walked back to the park.
I called friends but almost nobody answered.
I spoke to my mother…
trying to get back in the painting
but I’d been locked out.

I left voicemails and texts
but there was nobody there to console me.

I took the train home. I walked to work and got my money.
I smiled and I tried to get back in the painting
but it was so far away that it was all but faded now.

I came home. I found some amount of solace here.
I found peace in Facebook posts that I wouldn’t tag you in.
But when I went to text you that I loved you and that I hoped you’d had a good time
I read the rest of the texts you’d sent me on the train home…
and then I was angry and hurt again.

I don’t have a ticket to give you.
I can’t even offer it to the bitch you went with
because she had every right to go; far more right than me.
Because she had a ticket, you see.

I’m angry. I’m hurting.
I’m angry that I’m hurting
and hurting because I’m angry.

The lie of 6pm hurts me.
And the thought (before the truth)
that my being there so close to the opera house meant something;
that light hearted faith hurt me too.

I don’t have a ticket.
But I have something more valuable.
I have forgiveness.

Forgiveness for the lie of 6pm can be yours
if you tell me you’ll never again
put me in a position to beg
for someone else
to voluntarily cease to keep
something you offered me first.

I need forgiveness too.
Forgiveness from you
for being so caught off guard again
that I refused to answer.

I should have demanded that fucking ticket,
as you’ll likely tell me.

Forgiveness for myself for allowing my belief to hurt me.
I can do that.
I’m in a strange painting of my life after all.

I’m self aware on a level I’ve never been before.
And I can forgive myself for thinking
there was something waiting for me at the opera house door.

The painting of my life is wild and vivid
and it clashes with the world around me,
and it illuminates my every flaw and finds them beautiful.

Tell me you love me I say to you and the reflection before me.
Tell me you respect me.
And tell me there will be no more broken 6pm promises.

Tell me that and I will relinquish whatever you like.

Written By Jason Wright
April 30, 2014

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