This Holy Grail
Rests upon a chest high
And bathed in artificial
Lighting.The onlookers stare
As I make my ascension,
Which magical words
I will mention
To open
The doors of copyrighted
Dimensions.My voice is seen,
Not heard —
Shaken, not stirred.
The images I relate
Are audible
Raised from fallen trees
To form ink-blot bodies;
They perform
And take center stage,
Leaving my unresponsive body
Standing unnoticed in the background.Audience, worship
The creation and not
The creator:
Revere my manipulation
Of dusty old words;
Disregard my lack
Of stage presence.

The world is a stage,
The stage is a show —
Some live for the new
But I survive off
The re-runs that play
In each and every
Audience members’

My poetry is meant
For syndication.

*This poem appears in Heart and Soul of a Thinker.