Category: Poems

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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

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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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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.

Posted on

PANIC

The pain continues
deep down inside me.

Unanswered questions
seek to divide me.

I’m falling apart
and there’s no one to catch me.

Go fuck yourself
and then cut me –
I’m free.

I can only see blood
as the drug takes it’s time.

But the knife hurts my friends
and it’s such a long crime.

The wounds heal in weeks
but the feelings stay bruised.

And why do this now
when I’ve already moved?

But the panic arises
when I feel that I’m caught.

And the pain still surprises
as my lessons are taught.

And I hate that he’s angry
and hurt and unspoken.

When I’m all of those things
and more: I am broken.

My insides are screaming
and I just don’t know why…

Why is this happening?
Is it because I survived?

They say that I’m strong…
They say that I’m brave…

But on days that we fight I am very afraid.

Written by Jason Wright
October 16, 2013

Posted on

ANNIVERSARY

I struggle and shudder;
My heart starts to flutter…
The panic; it hits me in waves.

Overwhelmed in mere seconds;
Fear fills my existance:
my life could be spent here afraid.

But I strive to stay grounded;
my fears are unfounded;
I breathe and I center my being.

My world isn’t ending;
it’s love that is sending
me out from this world that I’m leaving.

I’m strong and I know this,
though life isn’t quite bliss,
My life is all that I’m living…

And though I’ve been hurting
what’s most disconcerting
is the act of never forgiving.

Written by Jason Wright
October 4, 2013

Posted on

The Prison of Shame:

I’m a prisoner of the past.
A prisoner of a war waged within me.

I’ve been opened up by razors
that strived to fix what was broken long ago.

I’ve been gutted.

I’ve had batteries stuffed inside me
to replace what father stole,
to replace the fear of wrath
and the sacrifice for love
with metal, plastic and electricity.

So many love my worthlessness
that I’m terrified that I’m not already well for them.

I should be better,
I know this despite this being irrational.

I am irrational.

My feelings and memories and fears are not rational…
Yet my feelings and memories and fears are my reality.

I’m ashamed of what I eat.
I’m ashamed that I must eat at all.
I feel I should be able to survive without food or the punishment food invites.

Ever since hungry child’s belly
drew sister’s blood
and torment from angry crazy father monster.

It’s so hard to talk about this;
I’ve not talked about the shame in over 30 years
and this wave of uncertainty; this ocean of shame is why.

She forgave me once.
When I first remembered I wept and begged;
she said there was nothing I could have done
but I didn’t believe her yet.

In 2009 I began to feed myself.
I began to believe.
The hungry child’s belly deserved food and I would give it to him.
But my sickness persisted and isn’t that basically what he’d told me would happen?

I’m terrified.
I’m afraid of these feelings
and how much I am feeling…
These feelings overwhelm me
and facing them risks my survival
and the hurt of all those I love.

I’m split down the middle,
the hungry child who’s been punished
and the righteous lover who’s fighting to save all those he loves;
even himself.

How many sacrificed for my salvation?
How many destroyed or maimed by my potential damnation?

The numbers weigh heavily on me until I find it hard to breathe
unless I concentrate on every breath.

I struggle for oxygen, sustenance and life.

Why the struggle?
Sometimes I think it’s fear of death.
I don’t want to live forever; I simply don’t want to die.

And in times when the fear dissipates as it does at it’s worst,
I count the people whom I love; the people that love me
that would be bruised at my passing
and that allows me to remain;
a prisoner of their love.

But somehow hope remains a persistent bitch.

I hope to escape the past the way I escaped Michigan.
I came to this island with my lover and not much else
in the hopes that I could escape and conquer that which has been my prison.

Hope is painful and vindictive.
Hope has left me weeping for three consecutive life sentences.

Yet hope doesn’t lay down and die
when I wish that I could.

And so hope is stronger than I am.
Hope can give me the peace that I crave.

I just need to survive long enough.

And if I don’t?

Well, I lasted longer than any of the others…
so cut me a break.

Written by Jason Wright
September 23, 2013

Posted on

UNBECOMING:

I don’t know who I am anymore.
I don’t know who I am anymore.
I don’t know who I am anymore.
Perhaps I never knew.

I know I’m alive when we are together
but when I’m alone that’s not true.

I’m struggling and flailing
just learning to breathe
searching for clues and for answers.

The truth is I’ve died now
(so many times now)
Perhaps all that’s left are the ashes.

I’m strong and I’m brave
(at least that’s what friends say)
I exist so perhaps they are right.

But the pain that I feel
as I struggle to heal
overwhelms me until I must write.

The nightmares are cursed
but the visions are worse
because comforting lies can still soothe me.

And I fear I won’t ask..
How long can dreams last?
One day my dreams might consume me.

But I don’t want to leave
so I struggle to breathe
and I reach out to family and friends.

I try to learn skills
but the timing still kills
and I know that everything ends.

Written by Jason Wright
July 19, 2013

Posted on

FALLING TO PIECES

I was pushed from a height
and I plummeted downward…

I shattered to pieces
yet I travelled onward,

And the night that I met you
was desperate and magic…

A ghost of myself;
my death had been tragic…

I walked through the cold;
could not have been bolder…

And one of my murderers
cried on my shoulder.

But you crossed my path
though we’d met before…

In a time I can’t fathom
or begin to explore…

For that October night
eclipsed all the others…

And you took me home
though we weren’t even lovers.

You sparked something there
that I could not perceive,

Igniting a flame
that I could not believe,

A fire that warmed
what had threatened to freeze me,

Desire that formed
over time as you freed me.

We were friends
with a sparkle
of laughter and lust…

We grew to be more
as we developed our trust…

And friends became lovers
and partners and family…

You’re in my blood;
in my breath;
you’re inside me.

You’re part of me now
and I don’t want to lose you…

I don’t want to doubt,
disrespect or abuse you…

I don’t want to hurt you
or take you for granted…

I’m conscious of this
and I need to be candid…

I’ve loved you for years now
and yet I’m still falling…

Still falling in love with
no signs of stalling…

Will we crash at the bottom
or land on our feet?

All I know is that
falling with you I’m complete.

Written by Jason Wright
April 13, 2013

For: Aaron Sanko

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