BALD JASON'S GAY GOTH BOY BLOG
A Work in Progress…Welcome Back!
He describes me
in terms he believes to be true.
Small.
Fast in my shorts.
Smaller than.
only I’m not…
and I never was,
not when it counted.
Only in dreams which recapture
my childhood.
Because it always comes back to childhood,
doesn’t it?
I’m still standing
in that stinging spray.
I never left that room,
and I don’t think I ever will.
That at least,
is one small victory.
Written by Jason Wright
October 2, 2018
I wake from 6 hour slumber
wordlessly, thoughtlessly
(thankfully) hungry.
In such moments
I’m not a person defined by starvation or it’s opposite.
In such moments
I’m not a person at all.
In such moments
I am simply HUNGER,
with no itellection or sentiment attached.
It’s so much easier when I don’t have to suppose,
reckon, consider or cogitate…
but knowing this, (paradoxically)
makes it that much harder
to NOT think about it.
I proceed toward the kitchen;
a compartment
that is far too compartmentalized;
a meaningful place
with far too much meaning.
Aaron always says that
I move with the silence of a ghost;
I believe I know why this is so,
yet I’ve never expressed this to him
because I’ve never expressed it to myself.
Everytime I leave our bedroom
I must approach that ignominious addiction;
that nutritious poison
which others proudly consume,
while my own natural cravings
are an endless source of personal shame.
“If I openly admit what I desire,
then monsters might hear me
and devour innocent children.”
What you could never understand is
that I know this to be true…
Still, I slip out while others are sleeping
or likely unobservant;
when distractions (and witnesses)
are unlikely to stir any sense
of self awareness.
But this ghost walking shell
is clumsy and trips an alarm;
the theft alert klaxon
of the unreached microwave.
I know I mustn’t eat now
but as panic approaches
I strive to curb its consequences.
Scented wax is melted
to burn away the odor of consumption.
Those mouth watering aromas
were long ago converted to putrescence
to save the lives of terrified children…
and though I know now these were lies
told by a sermonizing demon father,
that doesn’t actually make his words any less legitimate.
I remove layers of complication.
I scrub nauseatingly disruptive dishes,
scouring them clean of repulsive remnants
before placing them in the
mechanical dishwasher because
there can be no trace evidence left behind,
even when the sins committed are not my own.
Still, my continuing hunger must be punished.
I don’t wait. I use my weakness like strength.
I walk down 92 steps and over several city blocks
to local grocery store, where I nearly leave empty handed.
It is not uncommon for me to leave unsatisfied
several times over…but I haven’t the strength today.
I remind myself to breathe; to pay attention to how I breathe,
as I negotiate with a monster’s former victim.
Get something.
Anything.
Just get something!
There’s no bus but I count this as blessing.
I walk several uphill blocks and
I struggle in hope that exhaustion
will bring me back to dumb unknowing salvation.
After stumbling up 92 steps
I fumble senselessly into
cramped space of torture and horror –
where my lover drags me kicking and (silently) screaming
back to the awareness I’ve fought so hard to bury.
As partner tries to touch me
he removes still washing dishes,
preparing to make another noxious concoction
to stifle my progress.
What the fuck?
Righteous anger briefly explodes behind my eyes
before quickly dimming upon recognition
of his otherworldly normality.
My beloved is not like us
and he does not see the monsters.
I think to begin the cycle again;
with thoughts on emptying the trash
and cleansing the filth
which likely still rests on his office desk…
but exhaustion overwhelms us as I slink away to bedroom
where I scrawl this across notebook pages,
interrupted only momentarily by my darling’s entrance;
I refuse to stop writing or look love in the eye –
because I have to write this out –
because I’m falling apart –
because he needs to be acknowledged if we are to continue.
But as I finish, I read out what I’ve written
because
this madness is not all that I amand Aaron’s love has a way of breaking me free
of my ruinous captivity.
Written by Jason Wright
September 15, 2018
A fleeting annihilation in lust;
cheating is violation of trust…
cheating is hurtful and
cheating is slighting…
cheating is nothing that I find exciting.
What I find enthralling
which some find confusing
and may seem appalling
but really is choosing to probe my identity
satisfy wondering
disrobe obscenity
nullify suffering
to simulate danger
emulate fantasy
to stimulate strangers
and affirm our humanity.
And I know it’s perplexing;
I’m so complicated…
and I’m far from perfecting
what we’ve consummated…
but the point is just this:
no more unfaithfulness…
I want to persist but
not with such painfulness…
inverting portrayal
underscored with disgust…
reverse of betrayal:
exploring of trust.
Written by Jason Wright
August 26, 2018
Cruising the surface
the tempest remembers.
Bruising the cervix;
embarrassing embers.
The blush of disgrace;
the wet of excitement.
The cold wind of fate
as it screams for indictment.
But what you created
and what you kept hidden…
What you castrated
with words so malignant…
The preacher made jealous
and crazed by imposters…
The creature angelic
was praised by his monsters.
Written by Jason Wright
August 22, 2018
The day after dreaming
of lakes and of drowning
with lost lovers speaking / escaping / surmounting…
The day after Brian
had turned forty-two
(though former Hawaiian was lost to me too)…
The day that a cousin
came out to heartbreak
and family treasure was lost in a lake…
When Aaron confessed
to the death with his crying:
Was my dream of sex
just prediction of dying?
Written by Jason Wright
July 30, 2018
In the dream, on Brian’s 42nd birthday,
Aaron drives into lake,
which covers family riches.
And back at campground
I find well adjusted Michael,
with his playful latin lover,
who allows us our alone time
to heal, cuddling naked
and sharing our long overdue kisses,
shared decades after repeatedly fucking
for close to 10 years
straight.
This is something
that he wanted for so long
and I try to let him breathe
and I’m surprised to learn
they fixed that years ago –
I didn’t know that they could.
He’s happy and clean,
old with regret yet somehow
young in the satisfaction
of decisions finally made.
There was
no wife –
no children –
no victims –
and he was saving himself
before drowning in his own lies.
Written by Jason Wright
July 24, 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
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
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
One year ago tonight
you whispered
into my unhearing ears
with the flick of your tongue
across my lover’s desperate flesh
over oceans of thought, fear and lust
you joined that which was mine
while never knowing or desiring
my anatomy.
You, who knew not
to be yourself
except reflected in strange foreign eyes
which we have separately drowned in,
we have shared that beautiful body.
I am nothing to you
but an invisible partner
who plagues not your existence,
a ghost that is haunted
by tiny little deaths
which interred you both
on sweet Budapest fabrics
to the strains of Porgy and Bess.
You were musical phrases
that created a distinct melody
of an already exotic piece,
a hunger I may yet understand
but will never truly experience.
That night I was lost in your tonal pattern,
deafened by an overwhelming silence
which inspired want and hatred,
pity and indifference,
a longing that may never be satiated.
I say “your”
though the stress was not singular –
it was a harmony
that brought me to tears,
tore at my soul & ripped me apart,
boiling me down to my essence.
You were a crucible
by which all fear was melted away,
an intersection in which,
by way of paradox,
he and I were joined in honest surrender,
a yielding so keen
that it’s wounding pleasure
healed the breach,
sealed the rift,
and eased the strain
until nothing could keep us apart.
Written by Jason Wright
June 25, 2018
For Zsolt Krasznár & Aaron Sanko