from
The Preverbs of Tell
News Torqued from Undertime
BOOK TWO
Second Series
George Quasha
Copyright © 2000 George Quasha
Things Done for Themselves
We walk together like a field of fireflies.
Hard to beat being heard.
It gives the ear back to itself.
Mark the opening eye.
The words I leave out rip me apart.
The mystery is the core violating itself.
Reading poetry suffers it to speak.
Things done for themselves are the only things done for all.
Just walking by she multiplies in futures.
A blurt's a site of first breath.
Put eye inside empty letter and let her look back.
This only sounds this way.
We wave through each other to say hello.
The world's singing to itself again through my dog.
The tremble in the voice lets the knower out.
Poetry is the state stating.
Optimal includes bottom.
You didn't know it but it let you know it.
A form is what knows to stop here.
Words get a life to be spoken.
Exhaust the wisdom impulse before it exhausts paradise.
Poetry says it better than it sounds.
I don't mean what I say but it means me.
I barely feel myself hanging together.
The underline is as rhythmic as what's over.
It gives the eye back to itself.
Let me meet you in the dark where you read to yourself.
Voyeurism's the illusion that I'm not looking at myself.
Pen slips on the slopes of sorrow.
Seeing marks.
Today's the day I rewrite my biography.
I can't help believing in one thing after another.
Sounds good to me sounds true enough.
Her syntax longs to let depression and ecstasy dance indivisibly.
The word's touched meaning arouses.
Report from the split: everything is speaking at once.
Say what keeps saying what it is.
A hand feels its guidance coming home.
Enter a mystery only as it begins being itself.
Speaking lies stand tall and speak with conviction.
Every change along this line crosses the line into another state.
Modes of speaking break off at the edges.
Sex turns up non-locally.
New discourses are born by the instant.
Subject everything to nothing and get it over with.
Words commune by jump conduction.
The further eating of the fruit sentences in strange music.
Luciferic fracas fragments godly wholes in rare particulars.
There's no comparison.
Speaking out, up, to and for at once may be limiting, oddly.
Here comes a voice, someone must be listening.
Rules are habit-forming.
Who am I to talk?
Just because you can say how it works doesn't mean it does.
Hold on everywhere at once.
Absence of father gaps the vocabulary.
Language hides your remains in the name of the living.
Stiff sentence—comes before it begins.
Earth fucks back to give birth.
Dharmic wheel's potent articulator pokes apart the art with a spoke part.
Line control. Nothing doing.
Who's running this show shows in the running.
My excitable media display her on the edge.
The word here only means because it is not only here.
Seeing things.
Speaking lies, stand tall and speak with conviction.
We read together like a frog pond.
A line times out before it tells all.
Neither belief nor disbelief nurtures the spirit.
Poetry is the risk of every bad thing being thought, speakably.
The proverbial is a mode of spitting out.
Sudden letting be may recall wetting your bed.
The sleeper worships icons of freedom in a dark privacy.
Viper splat. Tense passing into obscurity.
Hearing marks.
She sets my system of sensitive parts on merge.
Don't leave me out on the grounds of sound.
I can say nothing I can't hear.
I said I mean what it says, you hear!
The vision is the body seeing itself.
Speak in the first person on the earth.
Words aren't fully alive until the lips part..
A poem is what continues saying what it is.
If the spirit of language speaks to me who am I to disagree?
A zero point rehearses in sudden reverses.
I conjugate our steps apart to hold you where you are.
Poetry is out of body experience in the body.
My getting to know you gets under your skin.
Strike up the verb, sing the thing motivating over the tongue.
In other words in the body experienced out of body.
The time it takes to know is the bent of life itself.
Barely hanging together self gathers itself to grasp a line.
It bounds as I am.
Everything I do shows, including writing inside.
My line is my bent to bridge.
Read in the first person on earth.
Experiencing time wakes up as all and everything is.
Lines adjoin like sitting together in home room.
Making passes at each other allows conduction among parts throughout.
Reading communes in the form of lives.
There's no comparison, radially speaking.
Just kicked death in my sleep.
Freely given, freely taken vs. riven and mistaken.
What's not yet true says itself with the force of truth within hearing.
The life line is what you can get it to show itself.
First person speaks first person.
When you say it right it liberates.
Willingly reclaims will truly.
The space between me and what I touch breathes freer today.
Grief forgets to be a boat floating on happiness.
Religion attempts a preemptive strike on death.
Bus the mind to the end of the line just to hear the sacred cry, All out!
Leave no word unturned.
Speaking poetry truly means what it says.
A true work simply grows in difficulty.
Death just kicked itself inside.
Leave no thought unbounding.