Quit Raggin’ on the Moon, Man.

I used to watch them when I was little. Sitting on a huge couch wearing my coon-skin cap I watched the flickering light from a 1950’s black and white TV throw shadows of manhood onto the wall like Plato’s Allegory.
The tight weave of “manhood” was unraveling socially, but I didn’t know that yet. I was just a little boy.
Cowboys like Roy Rogers, Sky King, Daniel Boone…men that lived by a code nobody ever explained out loud imprinted me. No long monologues about meaning and emotion: these guys were all action. They never used violence except to protect.
Protect from violence. Men are beautiful. A code we can’t talk about directly binds us in trust. It crosses every “barrier” of race, ethnicity, belief and gender within the definition of “male.” Some of the men I know were not born with a penis. If you are a man, you are coded to protect. Like mothers, but different.
This has nothing to do with women. It is about being a man that has his shit handled. So easy to write: so weird to do. Because it has nothing to do with “you.” Being a man transcends this corporeal restriction focused on self just as being a woman does, presumably. I cannot plausibly speak to that experience in specific. Well, I suppose I could…but I’m not stupid.
Who are our role models? Who do we turn to to teach us to be men?
Oh. Right.
Us. Just fucking great.

Gulfport, Florida. Christmas Eve 2015:
Notes from our Gardening Correspondent:

Like a super-hero without powers or ambition
or mad computer ninja-skills, the kind that chicks most crave,
loping like an alpha-werewolf, to prowl the low-down streets
silently screaming at the moon, as if she gave a shit.
To rain her silver shards of light like bullshit from the sky,
or speak to me eternally in whispered admonition
to love her and despise her, my rock to push uphill.
Moon’s reflection shimmers, in cosmic tragedy,
each syllable a message, each message like smoke curls
into the sky to kiss her face, like Phobos loves Deimos.
Such signifier-attribution, to what goes on above
the gravity that pulls the sea itself, attraction un-denied.
The moon’s a “she” there is no doubt, her power to inspire
memories of full moons past, and the desperate beauty of shadow.

End notes: 3am 12/25/2015

Moon jelly in the sky, photo by bobbates


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