If mind is epiphenomenon of brain,
then what uncalculated wind rises
from the rest of body's volume and viscera?
Whatever it is, that is what I need from others,
that is what attracts me, not flesh, not form,
not evolution's engineered monster—
which only is as a negative-space image
of environment, of pressures, of demands
and opportunities ages past, programmed
for obsolescence—but the lagniappe bit
that supercedes the undesigned design and its copies,
the not-soul that transcends imperative.

And that's what I need from myself, too.
Something made of metaphor, not mysticism.