I Can Do Anything

With this pen I can do anything.
I could again be Marx and change an age,
or a student of Jesus
leading you with fervor
To the time of castle,
cold wood and stream.
Or Perhaps, for all you know.
I am a student of a master
and with a few different strokes,
I could dissolve you
with words that are not just words,
beyond this silly Internet.

The ink has the power,
of the one who draws from the well.
The one who draws the water of the pen,
has all moments and eternities dripping from the tip.
How is the transfer made?
How do copies of Walden transport me through that jeweled lake,
Under, and through its many doors?

I postulate to you that there is no time,
all has ever been written is happening now,
Marx is still scribbling in his musty London flat.
Peter will always be in Rome un-sainted, and working on his scroll.
And the Buddha sits outside of time,
in a lotus speaking quietly, gently, slowly,
to a scribe, although he may be speaking equally to us,
as all infinities are compressed with each careless stroke.