I shifted often in my seat,
while leaning back, in front of me,
behind the desk, sat Thomas Lux,
the author of a bunch of books.

“Occupation: Poet,” states
his public Wikipedia page.
A living is enough success,
when tasked to turn your words to bread.

Sven Birkerts, somewhat less well-known,
once said on Lux’s book of poems:
“Lux may be one of the men
on whom the genre depends.”

Such endorsements make Tom laugh.
They make old heads and young tongues wag.
And wagging tongues are what you need
if you desire new fans to read.

Imagine the joy of this new fan—
to meet with Thomas man-to-man.
My breath quickened, my heart slowed,
when I pictured my poem below his nose.

So for this first meeting, I composed
a poem to impress him most:
a metaphysical conceit—
the poet as an eight-legg’d beast.

In this piece, the poet spider
detains Idea and spits inside her,
then he drinks into himself
a mixture of her life, his death.

If the concept of that piece
piques your interest in the least,
believe me when I tell you, friend,
I maimed the concept in the end.

The words meandered on the page
like first-time actors on the stage,
like aunts who long and fail to please,
like disembodied similes.

I had shown my work before
to teachers, parents, friends—my core.
But none of them had understood,
I thought that meant it must be good.

So there I sat with Thomas Lux,
the author of a bunch of books,
the Atlas of all Poetry?
He may be, says Sven Birkerts. May be.

I read the poem first, then he.
I purred with pride hearing him read me.
He finished, then he paused too long.
I thought that something must be wrong.

I’d fantasized of instant praise,
to “be discovered,” in his place.
But nothing dawned up on his face.
My heart, once slowed, began to race.

Of metaphysical conceits,
forgive me reader, if you please.
I’m sure most thought I wrote from pride,
when fear was what I felt inside.

“You happy with this?” he finally said.
“Yeah. Sure,” I replied, five shades of red.
“Okay. So who are you writing for?”
“Myself,” I said, my eyes on the floor.

“That’s what I figured,” he said with a smile,
“Your technique is fantastic, an interesting style,
good rhythm, good wordplay, it’s really a shame
I don’t for the life of me know what you’re saying.”

As he continued, I realized the truth,
my parents had said the same thing in my youth:
“Bring the fodder where the cows can eat it,”
my father repeatedly said and repeated.

But it took Lux, so true to the Latin,
to finally dispel the darkness I sat in.
I set about then to begin a new way—
to attend to the reader with all that I say.

********

I hope that was fun for you more than tedious.

In case you were wondering, I eventually edited that first awful poem I showed Thomas Lux (“Vanity Plate: I8SPDRMN”) into a somewhat less awful poem, retitled “He Feeds Himself Himself,” which poem made its way into my first book of poems, The Landfill of Discount Messiahs. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a copy of the original version to prove the final version is, in fact, a marked improvement. You’ll have to take my word for it.

Here’s the final version, for what it’s worth. It’s a triolet, by the way:

He Feeds Himself Himself

The poet is an eight-legged beast;
his many eyes reprise like an ancient wonder.
He sips from his prey what his fangs release,
the poet is an eight-legged beast.
He leaves the empty shell where its struggles ceased;
others see it suspended in his web and ponder
how the poet is an eight-legged beast;
his many eyes reprise like an ancient wonder.