Exo-Craniums and Tabooed Critiques

Hymn to the Comb-Over, by Wesley McNair

How the thickest of them erupt just
above the ear, cresting in waves so stiff
no wind can move them. Let us praise them
in all of their varieties, some skinny
as the bands of headphones, some rising
from a part that extends halfway around
the head, others four or five strings
stretched so taut the scalp resembles
a musical instrument. Let us praise the sprays
that hold them, and the combs that coax
such abundance to the front of the head
in the mirror, the combers entirely forget
the back. And let us celebrate the combers,
who address the old sorrow of time's passing
day after day, bringing out of the barrenness
of mid-life this ridiculous and wonderful
harvest, no wishful flag of hope, but, thick,
or thin, the flag itself, unfurled for us all
in subways, offices, and malls across America.





On the Psychological Dilemma of the Poem:
We men forget that our exo-cranium is not the first thing women look at or sense- they look for a certain animalism, hair or no hair… our obsession with the top of our head is born from the shallow 2D worlds that wedge between us and reality- but then life often move forward through the pools of shallowness… (for example, I am as guilty as any, for what do I notice the primitive man in me noticing in a woman first? Shallow, I know… and knowing necessitates reciprocating in like shallownesses to satisfy the equally uncontrollable shallow in the opposite gender…)

On the Poem's Style:
As for the poem itself- I am no fan of the current vogue of clipping off pure prose just to pretend it’s a poem, and keeping it to the size of one page for easy publishing, and I'll wager the author isn't, either; and I’ll further bet that he knows he has to write within such narrow constraints in order to get published and pad his resume- necessary for literary jobs, titles, and accolades. A true, and especially modern, poet should be much more than this- he should be well versed in all veins; it’s so sad to see someone having to stoop so low just to get anywhere in the stifling establishment (ironically yesterday's rebels). An artist should also be free to go where he will, and having a day job facilitates just that, freeing one from being financially dependent on writing.

On the Author/Subject Relationship:
I detect no passion for the subject- this piece seems more an obligatory exercise- where idea begets a block of words. I detect no humor, no tragedy. As an exercize it is a good effort, referring to the hair with a nice variety of words, but there is nothing behind the words but exercize. The piece really is addressing only those men whose high-school years predate the hipness of the long-haired late 60’s, and so it doesn’t resonate with large portions of the population, especially females, for whom a comb-over is just plain icky, and will avoid the poem.

On the Poem Setting:
I like the microcosmic focus on an singular aspect of society, truly Kooser-esque, but the subject does not address anything stirring or taboo, like, say, anti-liberalism would be today- it does not raise one's heartbeat one way or the other (for or against) or stir the intellect or emotions in any way; it's more like writing about shoelaces. At best it is a springboard for someone to leap into a deeper exploration into the matter, perhaps of men vs. petty vanities, to the point of exploring the essence of life itself. so maybe I should be just that someone- to put my money where my mouth is, for I write, and am not just a critic... (rolling up my sleeves…)

A Further Exploration Into the Larger Matter of Manliness:

Talking

Rather than hair,
manliness is more defined by the following trait:
talking.

So let us delve into this ‘talking’
as it pertains to manliness.

Talking weakens a man.
You hear some men talk tough,
but the irony is, real men don’t talk;
talking men are weak men
who simply create mobs to do their bidding.

You hear various accents,
and as any norm, the accents are local,
and as any local norm,
if you do not conform,
you get beat up,
but not by real men,
for they don’t talk, and could care less.
You get beat up by mobs,
created by talking men,
whom real men disdain.

Now accents are trivial,
and real men do not create or fight over trivialities.
So real men grunt.

There have been kings that wore dresses.
Those kings talked too much.
Henry III of France?
Yap, yap, yap.
Real men greet each other by arm wrestling.
Then they build things.
There is enough in just those two actions alone
to give a man enough to think about,
rather than talk about,
and enough of a lens to see life clearly through.

Now, let’s create a scenario:
You visit Scotland, and if you are around real men,
and you do not speak with their accent,
what is the preferred method of communication if you are a real man?

You grunt.

This of course has it’s disadvantages,
it spawns Henry III’s of France
who make up for such lack of talk;
so since they are filling a niche,
we can't be too hard on them.

So men, even real men, must break down,
and eventually talk.

Ech.
Grunt.
Mumble.
Grudgingly.
Real men can’t wait for telepathy,
but then they consider the mindless cacophony that will exist
in that stratosphere, too, and despair.

Women talk.
It is their only weapon.
They talk enough for both genders,
leaving real men free to get by with grunts.
This makes woman appear more intelligent
on the surface.
Real men can take the jabs,
or worse case, admit that woman is right
on most important matters,
simply owing to their instinct;
they just screw themselves by talking too much,
which begets the trivial,
which begets being tuned-out
by real men...

who grunt.

Eventually, real men are stuck-
between the womanly world of talk,
and the manly world of grunt.
It is a necessary compromise,
and when real men break down and talk,
they must keep their perspective of who they are
and what is being sacrificed-
their manly instincts and intuitions,
which are the first to be corrupted by talk.

Where does writing fit in?
writing is not talk.
Writing is thinking,
which is how real men talk.
Sure, it’s abused badly, like any tool,
in this case by gabbers of trivialities,
but real men can take a tool
and do wonders.
It is why a woman’s ultimate desire
is to hear a real man utter a certain three words…


Saying ‘real man’ brings up several issues,
such as the issue of pride.
For that I can only remind you of the parable
of the mouse and the lion.
Pride does not serve a real man.

How about greed?
Do real men amass wealth just for the point of it?
Do they screw others as a mark of distinction?
For the consensus on this, mob rules,
for in some circles greed is the defining factor.

So there you have it.
Talk, real men, debauched monarchies, circles, and mobs.

Is a real man corrupt?
You would think so, going by current ideologies.
So again, mob opinion rules here.

How do real men survive?
They stay one step ahead of the men who talk,
for even a real man can be lynched by a mob.