Unshouldering ideology,
the Close-Mouthed Revolution
finds the unmapped
center of all maps
on a blank road, unpaved.
So you might join,
they draw the way
without lines
in colorless coloring books
of infinite page,
ephemeral crayons.
The way.
Submit to victory.
Be still to move.
Almost arrive endlessly
At every almost,
remain silent.
Take no sustenance.
Taste no whine.
Shush the incessant
prattle of mind.
Here, you must feed starvation.
Hunger is food to equivocation;
the way is uniquely the same.
Remain silent.
You must stop to go,
blind yourself to see
no X on absent maps.
At no time will you be there,
out of breath, running in place.
For a race without ego,
you train without station.
“On no marks. Get set. No!”
There is no where to go.
There are no lines. No tracks.
No one cares to know.
Abandon your pack.
Drink, Closed-Mouth,
from the eternal desert.
A revolution without blood
bears no red indication.
You surrender to win.
Death pens the lively invitation,
and you must end to begin
.
The Spirit of the Age 
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