Time Passages

This Is Not A Confession; It’s a Supplication

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This Is Not A Confession; It’s a Supplication

Two poems separated by a few years of scratching and clawing

What a difference 50 years makes . . .

This was back then . . .


I’ve never been
a good husband
and at this age
I have no goals or desire
to ever be one.
I AM one, a husband,
probably better now than
I was in my previous
failed marriages,
but I don’t care much about that.
I take no pleasure or pride
in anyone thinking
I’m a good husband.
Seriously, fuck that.
To be a husband is to be
a caricature,
a cartoon character,
the butt of jokes,
and a never-ending
example of failure.
The default position of husband
is to deny
that you want to fuck
every attractive
woman you see
and even to pretend that
you don’t even SEE them.
This core requirement all alone
tells you everything you need to know
about the essential denial of self
involved in playing this sick role.
The tragic position of wives
has been marvelously
dissected, examined
and explained by the
Feminist Movement
ad nauseum,
but husbands just keep
plodding along,
failures and losers
before the race has even begun.
The economics
of modern life
and the demands of
religious/moral rules
invented to create a safe
environment for raising
offspring and for passing
along property from generation
to generation,
require that the man
sublimate his every
natural and instinctual impulse
to the emasculating,
castrating position of
So, have you selected your
“Best man” and your “grooms”
for your wedding yet?
It’s like getting to pick
what color hood
your executioner will wear
for your hanging —
only the death sentence
of becoming a husband
is never that quick and humane.

These days:

She smiled at Me…
…and several layers of
something previously
lifted off my shoulders
and the new lightness
sustained me for a while…
until she frowned at me.
And then she smiled again…

Jesus Trash

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