Backing Into Language

Dear language:
I back into you
adoring
capricious extremes
to found here,
words pretzeled
into hose
and now the flow
pours pinched forth,
factors found
in blurred syntax
become delicious to me.
It’s not for you to make of me
a fool, belled as a cat moving
birdward.  Savor instead
these even tones
broken open,
their hot fragrance.
I have had to train myself
not to care for the gymnastic
twists of the reader who attempts
to follow me. I am God here,
a goof-off God
who spurns
Creation.
Meaning is secondary
to the trumpet
I’ve made of me,
tooting me,
touting me,
Regulation
of the impulse
to spew
is anathema to
some kinds
of ecstasy.