I finally break down as I listen to her designedly drowned in dimes and volkswagens…
I finally get down In (these) Times of Dragons.
I’ve kissed and I’ve thought of the old wrongs renewed…
I’ve listened a lot to the old songs he knew…
We SPARK to prolong what will never appear…
It’s dark to hear songs that he won’t ever hear.
Written by Jason Wright May 7, 2026
For Sean – who would have loved the new Tori Amos album.
* * * * *
I listened to the new songs 6 days after the release of “In Times of Dragons” and I thought I was fine, but then I thought of Sean never getting to hear this and I wept in the shower. Aaron noticed I was sad but I was tired and unable to talk about it. I’ll explain it later. If I could give Sean this album I would. But I can’t, and that hurts. – Jason
In 9 days it will be 17 years from the night we first met.
And though you discarded me in a mostly cruel and senseless fashion I still write & think of you often.
Some of the words I write are angry, hurt, longing or strange…
And though I’m PROUD that I refused to chase someone who chose to run away from me and our truth I miss YOU more than any other pain that you have caused me.
Written by Jason Wright October 9, 2018
For Mobley Mouse, for Theodore and all the other names I’ve come to call you.
There was a morning, a day, a hot afternoon where I thought my life would change… where my wandering had finally altered my direction… but it wasn’t meant to be. Perhaps every day is like this for others… but the day I am thinking of, the day of sex before the sermon, I believed that I’d finally arrived somewhere I was meant to be, only to learn across the years that I would seldom ever return, and I wish I would have known how special that time was, how precious those moments.
It’s altogether different yet somehow the same when watching you watching whales… when the music you share nearly kills me with it’s mournful beauty – giving me fever chills and death spasms before my fever breaks and I’m allowed to dance in the trance of our shoegazing dream pop.
In the fever all that could comfort me was the seemingly old but younger woman with the ghost on the porch… An echo of that first reading joining my pain across two different eras.
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The first would have been discovery, and on the very brink of puberty as I stumbled through that sea of trees to find a validating fiction.
And now the feeling: brotherly, yet still cherry stink of nudity as I’m humbled by our deities to bind an animated friction.
And the proof it is not fair but the truth is he’s out there begging for money, trading sex for drugs hungry while the whales circle round us tasting sweetly table scraps.
And the lie if there is one is that life is a shotgun because life hasn’t drowned us baby please don’t go like that.
Our shared experiences in the past seem to mean nothing to those reflected in the world’s window screen.
I watch them all hoping for recognition / reconnection while sister hurts and Sean struggles.
Steve is happy listening to sad songs which make me weep.
I want to tag myself in a million posts in every place I’ve ever gone.
Fuck this song. Fuck this.
Life changes us and you’re a stranger that I once knew or at least I thought I did.
I have pictures but they don’t seem to matter; they don’t seem nearly as real as yours.
I tell you the secret in the past but you are blind.
I dive for real love at the beach house with men that I trust while Lauren Moloko Hatchie St Vincent (actor out of work in the radio Dept.) decides the time is now to try to speak your true name amidst disarray antidotes, preoccupations with daysleepers and their creation… and now the meaningful nonsensical rhyming must begin as we fade away to nothing important:
I get a little blue as I listen to your tunes as I Facebook stalk your trek across the place I never knew…
And Sean is turning tricks paying rent by sucking dicks, and nothing really matters if our lives are candle wicks.
But I want to visit woman with the ghost out on the porch… want to live my life again when I am out of sorts…. want to read of witches as my fever threatens soul…
Your aura ghost echo (lost orca in ghetto) and only espresso can make us both whole.
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.
The best actor tonight reminded me of you; I thought to speak this but then remembered your cruel insanity and the way you cut me before cowardly running away to your drugs; your marriage of lies and pain, denial and hope, sadness and despair.
I wanted to invite you to our party, the way I always reach out and invite you, but having removed yourself from my life I can’t extend the invitation which you confusingly attested had never been offered in the past… even though I always welcomed you and sought to join our worlds together.
You called me the night that your father died in October 2011, and when I inquired, you said he’d have been happy to have me there, but then there were no words or information given.
I invited you camping for a night in 2016 and you agreed but then your future fiance blackmailed you into staying behind.
You asked me to take photographs of a famed NYC locale which I spent a day reaching to amuse you, only to share them with no response whatsoever.
I invited, again & again, and you cancelled, made excuses, ignored or hid for no reason I’ve been informed of.
Every time I reached out, you were grateful, but refused to touch.
Until the night came of The Body Politic when you accused, expelling your poison laced accusations with no possibility for my response, despite years shared in conversation, dedication and nearly 16 years after the most perfect kiss that I’ll have ever given.
That night I chose not to follow you. Not again. I will not chase you simply because you’ve chosen to run. I will not struggle through your shit just because you feel like being an asshole.
If you reach out to me I will be there, but I don’t have the strength to force you to see reason or remember how I have championed you.
If I’m lucky I’ll hear from you again someday but I suspect I will only hear of your untimely end.
You were out of your mind on junk the entire time I knew you but I just couldn’t see it.
I see it now and no matter how much I try I can’t stop loving you.
The only difference is I love myself now too and I deserve better than to suffer for the choices that you’ve made.
Message came through the wire: betrayal, hallucinogens and lies.
The walking wounded attacked faithful friend before shattering the war radio – Line goes dead.
Shell shocked survivors shake their heads in confusion; refusing to give chase to someone willingly / needlessly running from them.
On the battlefield of life in the trenches of drama former lovers behind enemy lines of friendship crumble to Hiroshima ash, seemingly destroyed and unable to rise.
“Our armor was useless.”
“Our love was easily forgotten in the chaos of bloodshed.”
Your madness is endless, My sadness is friendless,
I will not surrender to man who would end this.
On opposite sides of a battlefield vital…
We sing different songs which have similar titles…
Which share the same message if not the same score…
