No roots or rod connects to earth,
not tips or toes as anchors.
No splines or taut guy lines,
I stand still, as flesh flows through me.
Darkness wafts no wind resistance,
reflections cast no shade or shadow.
The fruitless search of consensus,
begets only mire and mediocrity.
And so I step away, break the bonds,
disavow the herd mentality.
A self of shifting shade and shape
that moves but bends no hair or hemp.
Binding to no place or purpose
I hear all but no echo of voice-
reverberates. I am swan mute,
my dialect of desire unspoken.
No striving towards tolerance.
Man is God’s greatest paradox,
I am his anthesis,
not a summer scorched chameleon-
But constant breath of cape wind,
the dust that dances in high ozone
over waves of trackless desert.
I am the ephemeral.-
Morning mist that melts before August sun.
The spit of Cuckoos on needled nettle leaves.
I am the weave of the web
And the feel of eight deft fingers.
I am the total of minuses combined
The grist and girth of gyring minds
The depth of monocular vision.
The scope of historical revision
I am not frowns or furrowed brows
the universe on trismus tongues
or boldness of green clad hero
I am nothing but the sum of zeros