When pen is placed upon the page
there is nobody here
except a peaceful, humble sage;
his Master standing near.

Even in the person third,
my essence you can trust
will fill him up with words absurd,
and fire him up with lust.

But when the hero is a wif,
with breast and flowering quint,
my intellect is standing stiff,
peering past occular glint.

In darting fish and swooping bird,
in every atom of the air,
and even in a steaming turd:
my consciousness is there.

The foolish place me in a case
and tie it tight with string.
If they could only see my face
they’d know that I am everything.

This poem was originally published on my personal blog on March 2, 2006.