moxie overdose

toxic masculinity is
enjoyable, turned inwardly
as a means of arch self-critique,
one's own arch nemesis one might say

man u feek,

what a fah-REEK let cha flag fly, why?

WHY NOT.

Take a deep breath, my man
show you what choo got -

it was

the worst thing

both eyes burning, pried wide
you refuse to cry, admit state of shock
or display

- only to yourself, mind you -

any emotion other than fury, you
pretend to die a little, and crumble
into an ever-widening but essentially

rather shallow abyss, circular, you circle it
and then plunging in and out like a plunger, and then

you begin, and then

- looking round first, so no one can see -

you beat yourself silly, imagining
what she could do if she would see you now,
and wanted to, taking mental note:
how manly you are, how hard it is for you
that it isn't for her, apparently, not her hot steaming

cup

of tea, eh? Well,

Oh well, cheerio anyway. Lock it up.

Like a mime with an invisible safe, exaggeratedly
in huge, unmistakable and overly-dramatic gestures lock it

up,

and throw it away.

And, another one. Lock it up at the bottom

of the deepest well
of impenetrable vaults,
rising, all tipped over the brink
to tumble down in clanging, hollow booms, a
jumbled assemblage towering uselessly where no one
will ever think to see, take a look -
very safe. Each vault holds the key
to every one of them, and you

know the combination. What

if all this sentimental value could be tapped?

What if it could be released?

Breathing deep, you steel yourself to imagine
and act out in pantomime what that

might be like.

Easy enough, for a man in touch
with its feelings.

Ok. On three.
Two.

One.

Alone.

Trembling, muscles
taught sinewy times tables by rote since birth
multiplying in
your roiling, soon to be boiling blood, the spectacle

you make of yourself erupts, bursts forth in public, finally -

finally! The POISON KICKS IN, you fool! WEAPONIZED

double-blind single malt testosterone
- a double-barreled shot right in the balls!

HOWLING, you bend over and take it, keel over
and fall, tumbling
like a stuntman,
making it look painfully obvious
none of this artifice is anything
but
natural, and easy,
just the way you make it look.
"Made you look," you think. Then -

"Ta-dah!" You say, "I'm fine all along," in a even, casual breeze
of a tone pleasantly fun, sunniness running from your skin like sweat. You cry,
easily and freely, now that the overacting's done,

as if to prove how fine that is, how assured you are

with the strong and booming emotional biz. And for your last

trick? You pick yourself
last for basketball, a pickup game,
a fakeout, a fadeaway, you pick yourself

up,

up,

and away we go. You stand there easily, cut to ribbons
and bow, deeply

we're all impressed

with this.

Sweetly, nutritiously, wholesomely
artificially and not really poisonous

at all, at least,

it's not you it's me,
these hives
it's probably allergy.