The Message
by Greg Alexander 

I sang the body electric
all over a Composition notebook.

I deftly braided
centuries of allusions
and perfect metaphors
all together in endless verse
on endless topics,
all colliding
against each other
in perfect dissonance.

I wove a tapestry
made up of the canon
of literary and artistic achievement
and synthesized it
in a form so natural
that you did not realize
it was happening.

It all worked perfectly,
with deft timing and due aplomb.

I made you believe
I was the champion
of a thousand causes,
the cure of a thousand ills,
and the lamb
of one thousand gods
of equal beauty and vision.

I descended upon your mind
like a benevolent infection,
caressing your opinion
of my poem in a way
that neither of us fully understood.

I spat out line after line
of profundity,
unleashing my bold new ideas
of style and cowing ink
to do my bidding.

I murdered trees,
black carbon,
and varnish,
expelling a cool breeze
upon every page
in the hopes that you would believe
every stone cold truth
that shattered conventions
and brought you to your knees.

But you couldn’t figure out the title.