Crushing Franklin

I dreamed of a conversation
which more or less actually happened.

This summation is not quite poetry,
but it’s what I scribbled in my notebook.

Back in the dream or back in the memory or
back in the memory of the dream or
back in the dream of the memory…

Franklin, an ex-boyfriend of mine
tells me he has something very important to ask me,
as I remember him kissing me a lifetime ago…
2002 with the Green Dragon.

“Is this Christian really as hot
as he looks in your pictures?”

“Do you have a particular Christian in mind? I don’t really keep track
of the religious views of my friends. I, mean, I like to know about my friends,
but religion isn’t currently in my polling questions.”

“No. Christian.”

Then Franklin says Christian’s last name,
pronouncing it correctly the first time (which I did not)
and I smile.

“Oh! That Christian! Yes. Yes, he definitely is that hot.
He’s also funny, talented, compassionate, friendly, insightful,
he has a nice laugh and his wardrobe is both classy and slightly,
in my opinion, pornographic.”

“Pornographic?” and I can hear the smile in his voice.

“You’d have to see it to understand it completely, but I’ve
seen grown men drool at the sight. I mean, I’ve been one
of those men. But if you think he’s all that and a bag of chips,
just wait until you see Charly!”

When Aaron hears me tell Franklin this he calls me a bitch.

Franklin, with disappointment: “His boyfriend?”

“No. Christian doesn’t have a boyfriend,
though you and I do.”

“Then who’s Charly?”

“Charly is Christian’s better half.”

“But you said…”

“Yes I did. And I promise that I was telling the truth,
because Charly is definitely not Christian’s boyfriend,
husband or man friend.

“How to best describe Charly?
Charly IS a beautifully stunning, exceptionally gifted individual…
who manages to be ethereal yet completely approachable, and unfailingly sweet,
though not in an artificial, obnoxious kind of way.

“Charly is one of those people who you meet
and the subtlety with which you are beguiled
leaves you haunted for days afterward.
Christian has a similar allure, so I can see
why they make such a good couple.

“Charly is Christian’s muse. She’s also his girlfriend.”

And then Franklin calls me a bitch too,
and I laugh for several weeks.

I send Franklin to Christian’s website to see clips of his magic.

“His website is almost as hot as yours, though for different reasons.”

I think I’ll have to tell Christian about this the next time I see him,
only I’ve not seen him in a month
and who knows when I’ll see him again, really?

As I’ve said, I then had a dream
about this conversation and I like the extra details,
a bit of fiction which compliments reality.

I write this down on my way to therapy,
then transcribe it to Facebook less than 24 hours later,
to be published a few weeks later
on Christian’s birthday.

Written by Jason Wright
September 11, 2018

For Franklin, who inspired it,
just as he inspired me when he first crossed my path,
more than 16 years ago…

For Christian, who inspired Franklin’s question.

For Christian’s wardrobe, which, to paraphrase Radiohead,
is surely a siren, singing others to shipwreck.

For Charly, who inspires Christian and who inspired my response.

And for Aaron, because it always comes back to Aaron, doesn’t it?
Nobody calls me a bitch quite the way you do. ♥

Unfaithful Inversion

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

Less Than Thirty-Six

36: the oft repeated number,
mentioned in passing
and jingled out during repeated conversations,
as the amount of time he’ll be spending
before jetting off again,
halfway around the world.

And then he says 18.
But 36? I ask.
Bad math he says.
More than 24, less than 36.

My pain spikes.
A surprising, unforeseen reaction.
I’ve been fine but this seems like too much.

I want to ask him many questions
but he’s tired
and it seems selfish,
so I remain almost silent
as the car full of people shout over me
with a flashed dick pic nearly killing them all.

Later, as I struggle to rectify this disparity
between what I expected and what will be,
the distance between what I believed I felt
and what overwhelmed me in the conversation,
as tears stream down my face,
the telephone rings.

He’s sorry.
He knew what I was feeling.
He always knows.
We’ll have more than a few stolen moments,
despite the never ending ticking.
And he can’t wait to be in my arms again.

Less than 36;
more than enough.

Some people are never so lucky.

Written by Jason Wright
August 24, 2018

For Aaron

Emergence

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

Self Medicating

Migraine med blitz is
confusion and sleep…

Lust without sensation.
Trust with augmentations.

His imagined betrayal
is hotter than
anyone’s physical loyalty.

Written by Jason Wright
August 7, 2018

Slice of Life

Blanco, the great white car
devours its passengers
as seemingly old friend
dives into eardrums
to deliver smiles;
to sing us August carols.

The world leader in orthopedics
is spotted from east side highway
near river where helicopter passengers
recently drowned.

I’ve never crossed that bridge;
maybe I never will.

This slice has been topped with sticky sweetness,
bleached smell of potential lives failing to take hold;
failing to enrich anything
save my experience
and his imagined diet?

Not true!

Even in dreams
my shot penetrated no flesh
yet left me penetrated all the same;
slicing through me,
I lay bleeding copious conflicting sensations
that may yet one day kill me
if left untreated.

Better to die knowing truth
than to live knowing nothing of the kind.

Written by Jason Wright
August 7, 2018

The Day After Dream

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

Writing Like Razors

Go or stay
with a scream or a bow,

Blown either way
I lose TRUTH somehow,

His passion on one side;
Her gift on the other…

I can’t please them both
without shaming the mother.

I can’t malign length
with her eyes watching me.

I shan’t find my strength
with my lies crushing me.

I write to stay sane
when I go to repress…

“Poetry priest when I can’t confess.”

When NIGHT SILENCE falls…

When I am restrained…

When FRIGHT VIOLENCE calls…

When I’m all that remains…

When I am restricted
although it betrays me…

“I am conflicted when poetry saves me.”

Written by Jason Wright
July 29, 2018

Day of the Dream

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

Effectual Vulnerability

When he told me the truth
that I’d gotten wrong
it hurt so much worse
and was hard to be strong;
temptation intense:
self harm / sabotage…
I thrive and survive
and contrive camouflage.

Disguise is not weak.

This lie is a wish.

Tis wise to seek
ties to the guys we resist.

For licentious need
is endless exposure…

Keeping friends close
and enemies closer.

Written by Jason Wright
July 20, 2018

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