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.
When you walked in to Starbs with my man on your arm in your charmingly gay jeans, I smiled and I thought that this could be fun.
I ran into an old customer who told me about his son’s tumbling class as I watched you both ordering coffee, with an easy, relaxed manner, that spoke volumes of what was to come.
Your sing song ramblings were the essence of adorable and you seemed younger than your pictures, while also managing to look completely different from whatever angle I spied you from.
We agreed on Buffy’s Gift and disagreed on LGBT actors, though not in the typical, angry, grating way, which Aaron and I had just discussed in relation to a similar friend, who has already secretly been mentioned here.
We had matching board games which we managed to win before I took pain killer when I expected no more games to be played.
This, aside from the tongue fuck of a kiss which was seemingly dared and then shared without mercy.
Later, that other kiss on the kitchen counter, and you were the ghost of Sean Mobley, whispering across my skin before we all retired to the place I expected us not to go… which in all fairness, I had insisted on.
There were obstacles to overcome but in a relaxingly hazy, lustful way, or that’s how I experienced it at the time.
Your sexy ass, which I yearned to devour, was sadly out of service… and my painkiller infused erection was quickly down for the count, yet your beautifully thick dick and mouthwatering sack were open for business.
I did fucking love your sex drenched cock, stretching me open after riding your face like you were some kind of bucking bronco.
You were energetic, switching positions, still looking different from every angle, painfully / pleasurably thrusting deep inside me, filling the rubber with an impressive load of cum.
You left soon after, since you don’t like to cuddle, and the two of you needed to be up early the next morning.
You took Ian McKellen (as James Whale) with you and we traded messages on this or that service but I don’t hear your voice in those words.
In these random exchanges it’s hard to tell what is real; hard to tell if we’re going to see you again.
Perhaps you really were just a shadow of Sean, come to sing me carols and wake me with a kiss.
But I’d like to talk to you again: face to face.
It’s not all about your dick; it’s everything else too; all those angles are views I’d like to explore.
My sentences sent to convey this seem awkward and desperate, but that’s not how they’re meant.
Like I said, it’s hard to tell what is real in the light of day; hard to decipher if what we experienced was the beginning of friendship or merely the end of a short, yet satisfying game.
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…
The priest and the cowboy who murdered each other…
Killed with a kindness they both thought was clever…
Zombie decay decomposed into lust…
With nightmares more deadly than panic or trust…
For shades hide between what is real and is right…
They look so alive when seen in the light…
But night time, it blossoms them into the dying…
They can’t understand why they’re bleeding and crying…
They can’t understand why their pain has increased…
And they won’t find the truth until pain is let loose…
And life can infuse both cowboy and priest.
Written by Jason Wright NOVEMBER 5, 2011
On our first Halloween together, Aaron dressed as a cowboy and I dressed as a priest. We went to a party and I got a call from Sean Mobley who let me know that his father had died. The party had a karaoke portion and I saw “Angel” by Sarah McLachlan in honor of Ted.
March 26, 2011. This was the last time that I ever saw Sean in person.
Wish you were here and that things were the same as they were when I met you with no one to blame… with no illness or madness or distance between us… I wish you were here with desire to fill us… I wish you were riding and we were together… I wish we were writing and we were forever… I wish that the others who found you were kinder… My wishes serve as a constant reminder that wishes mean nothing in the face of disaster… I wish I could hear the sound of your laughter… I wish I inspired it… Although it sounds sappy… I wish you the best and hope that you’re happy.
Written by Jason Wright August 26, 2011
For Sean: who inspired much more and deserves so much better.
