To ascend
that vertiginous spire
will demand of me
a piece
rarified and orotund.
Obscure
of content.
Obtuse
in structure.
Roiling with
references.
Seething with
sententiousness.
A normal poem,
first dissected
into its constituent
words.
Puréed
in a blender.
The whole slushy mess
Then flung out
onto the lawn
and run over
a few passes
with the mower.
The tattered remnants
piled together
and set alight,
the ashes drifting
upward on the breeze
Until the charred fragments
float down about me,
and I vacuum them up,
empty the dust bag
into an envelope
and mail it off.
The resulting poem
so damned good
it brings tears
to their eyes
and they spare
no expense
seeking me out,
if only to learn
what other-worldly muse
allowed such a thing
to descend from on high
and dwell among mere men.