George Quasha
Downright Light, Hear It? [Park Story]
from Preverbs of Tell
tel-let online
2002
Downright Light, Hear It? [Park Story]
Copyright © 2002, by George Quasha
tel-let
325 W. Tyler, Apt. B
Charleston IL 61920-1865
USA
Downright Light, Hear It? [Park Story]
I still feel the trace of the dream passing through.
Lean over this way, maybe you too’ll get the feel of it.
Walking in the park, you know, happens when the talk sparks.
Don’t take my word for it unless the sun breaks through.
Listen down now in a slide to the bottom of the line.
Turning in gets out — she shouts, I’m heavy and I wanna be light!
Some things can only be said with the other mouth.
The colder the medium the hotter she speaks.
Listening inside a squeal’s more music than a wheel can bear.
Story unfolding holds you in time.
Wake up, break off.
Work down to the grain of voice self-seeding.
The music flushes to start fresh.
It’s the trees, minding the wind.
One tries again and again to say the one thing that’s never the same.
I’m rolled over by your listening, in her turn of phrase.
Ein jeder Engel, any one hurt, ist schrecklich, is its own angel.
Art touch — finger poking eye — says Open anyway.
Who cares if I feel violated by my reader?
On how many planes can you sense at once?
A writerly or readerly hand moves to your knee — same difference.
The park collects dreams to site a double spark.
In the middle of her scream I heard a point of laughter musicalize everything.
You’ll never believe what I tell you until the last word is written.
Nathalie Sarraute died today saying Words live.
Feedback from the last cry: believe on me not.
You’ll never forgive me for breaking the flow.
Everywhere I can’t stop building my house. Use. Lose. Use. Loose.
Backup to build by ear.
A first thing is a history lost.
We come to a crossroads — now watch the devil dance.
All for the love of the poem — raise hands. Like flowers.
Mudra of Madam Edwarda — gracing my palm today in Paris. It joy’d!
Three dashes to the realm of desire — and fourth the axis in a love cross.
Site incursion specifies life.
Build by ear, raze by eye, live what you hear, pray when you lie.
The crux:
Did you write this or did I?
I ask you eye to eye.
Hidden she sucks seed to seize the sea’s deed.
You heard it happen before it did. Music.
It’s not poetic but does noetic. Muse.
Did Blake break the news in two to refuse?
What stands between confuses us.
There’s no comparison.
What comes accords. Breaks in through.
To make a space let it fill.
Speech comes up from its own well.
Things tell all as only they fall.
Supra seg mentals. Park places.
Wellness is a spell of its own making.
Call out to her as the poem passes until she comes.
The lovers in the park feel for me as I know for them.
Division of labor as action at a distance occurs as it is known.
A true gift goes both ways.
Philosophy waking in the line is thinking in bed.
One tries again and again to say the same thing that is never one.
What fills of its own accord is empty already.
Bright sun in the trees—she doesn’t know I know she has him inside. Oh.
If it has no echo it has hardly been said. Or fed.
Opening in the middle she listens wide.
Turning around sounds out the other side. Oh.