George Quasha
Words Live Beyond Their Saying
tel-let online
2002
Words Live Beyond Their Saying
Copyright © 2002, by George Quasha
tel-let
325 W. Tyler, Apt. B
Charleston IL 61920-1865
USA
Words Live Beyond Their Saying
This is the center of the world so long as you are reading.
I was an object until your eyes found me.
Anything breaks out when seen through.
Shadowing blue through silk she shows the sheer view.
I think with her world.
Any line reads a stretch of life.
A fast one leaves thought behind in a trail of feeling dust.
We hit zero to rise again with sweet nothing in the heart.
Shocking the track shakes a clinging object free.
A line maps a tongue’s tie onto its thought.
I am an exhibition.
Everyone here is incognito.
World surfaces mind.
Every saying reaches towards its bone.
Letting the cat out of the bag changes nothing, as you know.
Anything done to another takes everything away.
This slippery act of penciling nothing traces as we speak.
Fuse me in your hearing aware.
Art is a dare to go barely on the line.
The old world still thinks itself in your every cell-bound swivel.
If a poem throws itself at your feet at least let it feel you dance over it.
It's a ride in hiding. Don't tell a soul.
The excitement dies or flies with equal candor.
A moment awake embraces through itself.
I am growing in confidence that it sings itself without me.
Feel this vanishing passion float free right here.
Refuse me who comes to pieces altogether.
Staged torsion is a swindle on a spindle.
Brain evolves in seeing itself.
So talk funny to lift a tongue ban.
Forgive my rushing, it’s all down line to catch an influx.
Smile when you reach for your thought.
Bang sounds thoughtful too — like life shaking like life.
Softer seems loftier but hard of hearing, clearly, wearyingly.
Some things go over the line only to stay within.
Mind claims its right to devolve within hearing.
Sounds like you heard it all before — like life feeling twice.
Doing your work before you know who you’ve always been.
Flap a line to hear its spiritual extension.
The shadow knows the sheer view precedes nothing, least of all itself.
A given line inlines many lines.
Someone’s breathing heavy spacing out the site.
A verbal object grows in suspense somewhere along the line.
Spissitudo! Spit out a word thing thick with reach.
It's immaterial to me and big all over.
Only mind turning asks Who is this stone? and gets a response.
A sail line blown by winds bounds life against death.
In its fire a voice separates from its allure.
Ask permission for everything.
Poems break loose for those from the other side.
Nota bene the terrestrial forms in bounding lines.
Loved the body and it wasn't really there — that's dance for you.
Willing to teach she makes asking possible.
Lips along this line may speak us to ourselves.
Matter rouses.
Nothing is safe here.
Reversing her breathing startles air into aether.
How else does the field say past knowing and know it?
Tension releases in holding tenses.
The sharp edge returns softness to itself.
Thank you for breathing me further.
A field so big only gesture means inside.
I feel myself differently, doubly bounding.
On one foot my other comes down in its time.
Being told you can teach makes it true.
Still hearing her hearing says the point free.
In these hands I am most like me.
Sheer missing matter restores in the feel of it.