She’s safe, if not whole and he’s unwanted, broken & insane.
Insanity may seem like a good cause for forgiveness or comfort but it’s actually a piss poor substitute.
Quivering on shattered legs, his spine broken by revelations gained in his “fall” from a great height… he fell so far and landed so hard yet he has never recovered from the truth of his actions.
The smile from the rickety defenseless monster seems so sincere that others make note and inform me of his safety; his well being; his painful continued death rattle.
This skeleton shell of a scarecrow man once preached sex and brimstone, starvation and salvation, while his inverted path to heaven would save us all even as he damned us to this forever Hell.
The boy across the field behind my house had more in common with me than ancestors; most other kids I played with were related to me but he was always my favorite
because of the way he looked at me… Later in life he was damaged in a tragic accident and our future conversations ceased to be.
In an unseen instant he was ripped away although he was still alive, and that’s more than can be said for others lost in that era of AIDS and ignorance.
I shake the love letter postcards out of my skull and pick one at random:
I remember his breath on my neck; the feel of our young bodies pressed together like the pages of a trashy tattered copy of a seldom read incest fantasy, which I will forever remember as the first time that I made love; the first time that someone I loved made love to me.
His reaching, reciprocated touch was tender, terrified and then joyous.
His movement: considerate, then brutal within the landscape of a language that we both finally understood.
In our joining, our words from a hundred lying conversations gained new meaning and were finally made honest.
His kiss informed me that I was never truly alone.
His cock translated every secret code I had ever witnessed in the eyes of countless lonely strangers.
His thrusting within me within the home of his grandparents… that place between sheets and layers of blood magic was always and will forever be sacred.
My love letter postcard memories are holy relics now tumbling out of my decades old skull.
Rectangular snapshots of a time before we were allowed to be who we truly were…
In a time before he lost who he truly, secretly had been…
A time when we had dreamed of a very different future that had been reflected in our tangle of shared flesh and blood.
everyone looks like everyone else, or at least everyone I meet of late reminds me of others I’ve known
like my life is a friendly little shop filled to the brim with charming knick-knacks, inspirational quotations and echos of a hundred baristas filling thousands of coffee cups… where lilting Donnie Darko music plays as Mobley Mouse’s older younger brother sits like a ghost in the corner of my clearly obsessed brain.
FireLion smiles as my other sibling selves recite poetry with all the power that we can muster.
I’m wearing Sean’s Tori Amos shirt which he gave me 16 years ago… yet it always somehow remains his.
Maybe because he lost his mind again last year,
He tossed me to the proverbial curb as if I were the junkie that he confessed to be, though who the fuck really knows?
Not that it doesn’t make sense…
It actually explains a lot – actually connects many dots – solves so many mysteries when combined with our own histories only we’re all addicted to something, aren’t we?
Alcohol, as a drug, betrays you very quickly. Anne Rice said something to that effect once, which I’ve always remembered though I can’t find the exact quote.
I can’t tell if I’ve been addicted to food…but if I have, then it is a drug that has betrayed me all too quickly.
Perhaps this is why he shivers inside me; not “Long Gone Sean”, but that child version of Jason Wright who whispers always beneath my skin and behind my eyes.
I struggle to feed him but his pained and palsied nearly lifeless form rejects the medicine he both craves and abhors, never knowing which decisive reaction is truly best after our fucked up father ripped his world inside out…
Sean’s biological father (“Ted”) was rock solid awesome while his step-father was less so; addicted to pain pills, he gave me my first tab of Xanax after I fucked his son in Sean’s gay, white trash, St. Helen, Michigan bedroom.
I reached my hand up to cradle his head to prevent it’s rhythmic bruising crash against the wall and I felt his confusing reaction as it quivered down from his brain, down along his spine, back through his blissfully tight asshole around my hard and horny thrust.
Later he told me no one else he’d been with would ever consider such a kindness… his stories were always so wondrously sad.
That 2008 reunion was nearly 10 years ago and apparently wouldn’t last the decade to come.
I wonder where he’d be today when this shade of Jason will struggle to jam a needle in his arm and feed our craving without judgment or rejection.
“We all have our junk and my junk is you.”
Junk: What William S. Burroughs was high on until he woke from “The Sickness”, when secretive Not-Dr.-Seward was cavorting with his Mugwumps.
Junk: The so-called yards where I played to escape the insanity of my own brutal “Protoplasm Daddy” complex.
Junk: The word is now forever associated with the 16yo boy at safe sex instructional who was the first I’d ever heard equate cocks, dicks & pricks with an addictive substance.
My so-called junk relieved Sean of his unwanted virginity, while his Naked Lunch variety relieved us of our treasured friendship, filled his veins with human immunodeficiency virus and bubbled out of him in a hateful madness which I will never allow to murder my love for him.
New location for poetic censorship is discovered days after Facebook nudes are similarly desecrated… Artists MUST be mad!
I think of Sour Girl Shawn as I pull on Stone Temple Pilots and walk to the train on my journey to Brooklyn.
I bring tracks from CD #3 and Mood Swings sing me to poetry between 168th & 145th.
I can’t remember attraction to Boy in Orange; attraction died ages ago without my notice… Still nice to see him if I’m ever so lucky.
Scribbler illustrates the back of my mind as I tunnel through Manhattan to deal with angry humiliating disappointment which I refuse to surrender to despite the temptation to ralph on the sidewalks of NYC.
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.
Gay brother is hurried, frenzied and anxious with no hint of sexualized identity beyond godly reunion with labyrinthine daddy issues.
He speaks of personal demon monsters that come for him and I wonder do psychotropic medications rob him of sex like the monsters that snatch him away; like Gobblers forcing spiritual circumcision on unsuspecting Golden children?
He teaches, reaching out to a fragmented world for a mythological unified self that I can’t quite believe in despite of it’s appeal.
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!
This night is as queer as the gay mohawked punk who complimented my jacket on my way to the A train in the village, only the night isn’t actually half as interesting.
The asshole sitting next to me has boundary issues and a fur lined hat that only Putin could love – he also talks loudly in Russian to his imaginary friends.
How have I lived this long without JeffisHe?
This express train is running far too locally.
Russian weirdo rips his top and snaps his fingers on nipples as orange as Trump’s face.
“Smile Bitch”
His sick room gas mask is the perfect touch and brings everything together in apocalyptic chic.
“Now runaway.”
His stripey pants replacement smells better but transmits plague as if it’s a rebel yell reaching across the air waves to stifle, strangle, promise and repeat.
My reviews are honest but petty… street queer deserved better.
My faded dream memories are highlighted by sexy black and white music videos
and yet his defenseless freckled skin, his sensitivity to illumination and to touch, to my mistakenly hurtful turn of phrase, not to mention the weak and tremulous light through his lambent luxurious locks…
All of this to illustrate through those color coded passages, confirming what I knew was truly blushing and divine.
The achromatic ginger waited lifetimes to be mine.
