Maybe Hugh. But No, Not You.

Hugh, to many, seems perhaps to indicate

that his devotion to his climb, through all

his deeply self-divining time, up every rung

of what was once the unsung ladder of his

Hugh-ness, whose every bump and faint 
striation he now thoroughly has sung 
(defines to some the nth degree of tedium),

may be more parody than panoply of what

Hugh takes to be his poignant tragic paradigm

of the sublime. He’s morphed into what some

see as a ludicrously awkward rootedness:

manifesting into immobility. Inimitable, yes –

but ew! Skewed point-of-view made flesh.

Well, that’s less than generous. Hugh likes

being Hugh. But can you to thine own self be
too true? Maybe Hugh. But no, oh no, not you.

.

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