George Quasha
fluctuant gender
preverbs
for Barbara Leon
FIRST PART
1 either ahead of yourself or behind
“Walking on water wasn’t built in a day.”
Jack Kerouac while on psilocybin mushrooms,
quoted by Allen Ginsberg
Everything is relative until it’s not.
Not knowing what to think we’re still passing through thinking.
Unconstrained laughter has been delayed by centuries.
Poem to poem is to crossways go.
Contraindicated to decide ontological status beforethought.
Too many events per phrase seems no event at all.
High silliness is still high.
The idea of uncertainty can mask certainty in voyeur mode.
I’m only calling it like it sees me.
A rule of tongue is to read until you hit open.
The gesture is painterly.
I can see you in my sleep.
Fighting for our lives we’ve never stopped pure.
Theorizing uncertainty escapes uncertainty momentarily.
I’m dead sure.
Neither ahead nor behind is here before the beginning.
There’s a timing of moving on just where you are.
When the land of unknowns ejects us again, we shake off worry like a wet dog.
2 mind full being empty
“Can you think at all and not pronounce heartily!”
Blake, Jerusalem, Pl. 77
Still wet behind the anxious ears I’m down to writing my way back in.
Stepping mind aside gives the taut scent of unrecoverable places.
Nostalgia for what is still never quite here and yet always known to be.
Oh to return to lost time and at long last live it.
Where’ve I been all these lives?
Time the incarnational convenience experienced mostly as inconvenience.
Hence the need for rhythm and hearing in place.
A slow learning quick study retains the will to cross the double line. Feel the pulse.
The dark side is the other side of the underside.
No can see far & wide but I hear you clear & loud.
Form of statement may’ve gotten you into hell but sure as hell won’t get you out.
Life needs to study alternative serialities, live it or not.
The trickster daimon inside glossodelia has a job to do, so drop that thought.
Syntax is a line of fracture.
What doesn’t follow must be otherwise true.
Where’ve I been all my life?
Escape into time proves journeying is back.
3 no shortcuts
A poem is a storm at your edge where you fall off from what you know.
The pull is to the point of teeter where anything you say is held against air.
Now to torture some words as even Newton did metals.
All for stone, the! hidden in caverns of verbals, say eye.
The object before you is a strange thing but it is open at both ends.
Born middle first.
A mind of its own meets a mind of your own with full syllables flagrante.
Live into the desire until it knows its absolute.
Time freed from its oppression cordons unbearably beautiful pulsation, pulling out.
The female in the gut is still calling you out.
Not feeling it is not an option.
You asked to come even if you don’t remember.
The long way around is the only way left this side of the edge, so let her out.
High nonsense is still high.
I can offer no defense at this angle and this is only one kind of start. Full stop.
Full stop is impossible. Living contradicts what it interdicts.
The sooner all beginnings are out of the way the sooner we enter their none.
I’m tuning in to the tangle that keeps bringing me here with a body.
A rule of ear is you listen until you hear back from the open.
4 living stories
Lost time is now.
If it’s happening to you it’s happening to me.
On your mark. Sign here. Step on in.
People don’t read this way anymore and they never did.
My door is open and mi casa no es tu casa nor strictly speaking even mine.
In this poem you’re correct for once that I’m coming on to you.
Don’t trouble yourself with predetermining the register of an utterance.
Self-organizing life is a wild child smiling through the window you thought home.
“George says all I have to do is be beautiful,” said Larry. I nod (is that a yes?).
Start with the law in your name like laurel leaves fiercely free in pointless space.
Get set. The antidote to seduction is an incomprehensible come on.
Attitude is a defense against insignificance.
Will love or love will the last hope is confusion.
Poetry is born of the knowledge we can’t be trusted.
Thinking terror is homeland to the father tongue.
I suffer initiation willingly but evidently I stop short of inviting serpents in my brain.
I’m waiting for the command to jump in her voice.
Sensing by length of wave from the word, Go.
5 state of brain, state of request
How you come in on a love site says you never get a second chance first impression.
Slant inflects desire.
A girl in the salad is raw appetite gone wild.
Please check my oil and my eyes.
Thinking doesn’t necessarily reach thing status on demand.
Evidently there is a total own. Such a thing.
Cutting across your backyard inflects desire.
This is that you have the time of your mind.
The first time she said fuck I felt reborn life imitating dream.
Did something call time out?
Touch in real life is an absolute.
If the capitol of a state of mind is in the larynx, law enforcement is in the fingertips.
Don’t ask what I think, it’s a bad question.
And maybe I don’t feel like telling, said the Pythian.
So many fundamentalisms you’d think they’d notice crowd of kind.
Reference wounds history further.
Retribution is out of the question.
Is calling time out, speaking poetically, like looking for shade?
If she’d said get laid would I have awakened from the dazed state so urgently?
6 caverns of verbals
I dream I enter an earth enclosure at a crossed sign ATTENTION! Attention tension!
I start rubbing my eyes to get at my brain.
The middle ear has an itch, to speak metaphorically of upright imbalance.
Entities arguably competing for ownership of my property never quite show up.
White serpents under the willow suck angry water skyhigh, life storms.
I may as well be dreaming.
A god is what wants what you want even more than you can imagine.
Not surrendering disbelief is not surrendering belief.
Make sense at your own risk.
The necessary notion is own rhythm known in the possessive imperative.
Self-owning does it all, with tuning.
Signs of the times claim rimes inside lines.
Rhythm is how it hits you and where.
Words open interiors like inward earth with its geomantic property.
They magnetize by proximity, with listening.
Ear to the ground for verbal sound inflects the musical outflare.
If we weren’t tracking an unknown interior we’d hardly be having this conversation.
The ear slipping around the bass torsion sidles momentary base sense. It’s a scare.
It has start-up in the round.
7 dynamics of gender
Thank you for the opportunity to oscillate identities.
Hand in hand is mind in mind, selectively.
In the world and out around the clock and not.
Never enough life for some of us still on the free run.
I also see my attachment in a detached sort of way.
Ignoring the look Mom no hands aspect of poetics the streamer arms may flare.
Danglers are anglers.
I grew up scared, mostly.
I was a boy not having met her. You, me, the still closing in.
We went to school to learn to read but they taught us mainly to manage mindblocks.
I’m still heading home and you’re in the way so you must be on the way too.
Yet in the tight totally dark room my claustrophobia lost out to vast space.
No speaking when spoken to—this is a place of ushership.
Even urgent events of mind leave sparse tracks.
Each is its own absolute.
Its feeling of time bearing down is from behind.
She leans us in to the hot site of selves that strictly speaking opens between us.
SECOND PART
1 gaping sound
Age disagrees.
I still hear them asking for me from across the aisle along the sometimes abyss.
Beatrice in the star cart et alia my qualia.
Forgive me I’m ambiguating, it’s natural when replacing the world.
Stone by tone by own known, it’s a long hall.
Nothing is built but it’s listened full length.
In short you can’t skip belief at the forefront where the real is first to degrade.
That goes for the best of the others with the alien feathers.
What you see is what gets you. In the gloam, as they used to say.
I promise to walk the crooked mile without going crooked.
This is where serpentine intends the bend.
It’s a state of mind where state sheds capitol.
I got skin for brains.
Hence the hunt for a poetics in wrap mode.
Most at home is where blood flows propriative in surround.
Sound unbound like sporangium.
What you get is what you see bellyfirst and power lower.
Spore spreads by rupture always ready to rime with rapture.
Language longs to sing things into being.
2 the long shadow of the precarious
While falling I try to notice up close the onrushing skin of the planet, it’s a she.
Signals in space are hungry for your brain.
Seeing elves you know they see you first liking being watched.
Aryhthmiatica’s heartwild mimesis of your everyday up/down no-way feeling stairs.
You never see what it is until it sees you through.
No point holding back, like I say it’s a she, and this is her mirror you face.
Not about knowing where you’re going but you’re seeing in your turn.
Language is a miraculous mess just like yourself.
Heartbeats or jungle music, your partner to your jaguar rising’s snared in words.
Reading writing & rhythmatic, so study wild.
Like the bird you are never flies too high. You’re never too high. This is the sky.
Death is only your own.
Now say that in your language, she said, I’m like you hearing things, they show alive.
Stop the world I want to get back on.
It’s important to mind the height you speak from.
One’s language has to take responsibility for creating life.
And the contrary. Hence the need for a poetics of homuncularity.
The sound of aeons in our laughing ourselves into being compacts as we go.
3 trying on thoughts
Nudity is not ludity.
Gregory Bateson
We outlive our thoughts until they wise up and make their own way, and world.
I’m reporting the leaks but not the leaker.
If you knew the thought was from space how could you say no.
I need to assume a no-taboo atmosphere else the thought won’t come out and play.
If it’s real to say it has a way.
I’m getting excited in reserve.
No making hay in a swerve.
Dance of the sugar tongue mushrooms.
They’re all talk and a subtext, giving teachings is receiving. Spore talk.
All attempts to understand are thought experiments in experimental minds.
Impossible to track all the moments, thanks to our gourmet angels.
Entities are gathering in threes hereabouts, the mysterious number, & clicking teeth.
Click click click how the rhythm addicts in the half pain it inflicts.
No techno gizmo can the heart pulse supplant save we entrance.
What catches opens to raw obsession.
What makes itself up knows how to let itself go.
I degrade with her apple.
She eats my rose or I thought it was mine until this.
4 spore talk
“They didn’t know what they were saying, and we don’t know
what we’re saying, but we think we’re saying the same thing.”
Jerry Garcia
The realizing mind is not inside the thought.
I spark between galaxies just letting it enter my mind.
The thought of you as I think of her teaches unbirthing, cuts me loose as seed.
I’m not from here. I’m where I’m heading. Fly through just to know you true.
Communication is grabbing hold on the fly.
Never too high is sky mind. Unwind.
Unbind by sound.
And that’s no way to talk to your poem, sounding commanding.
Lest tongue let go no show.
Only the seed is in the know.
Only the deed too quick to show.
The realizing song is not inside the poem.
Step away from that object, sir.
Loving your creation makes your offspring their images.
Verbal souls are fetal molds.
If only we could pick up on the words before they’re long gone.
I suspect them of playing artificial reincarnation.
Metaphors in space prove themselves as secret sex gone virtual.
If one belief goes down, no belief is safe.
5 situational syntactical
Are we saying the same thing yet?
She said the heart talking guilt is not the heart talking.
Saying me seems to mean we tonight, and saying you I don’t know who.
One. Pronominal numerical intensity identity.
There’s one fewer than two and greater than all. This may require warrior’s belief.
A year goes missing like a misbegotten number.
Memory suffers.
No doubt my inner homunculus knows better.
What is your status, sir? Cop preemption.
I see a unicorn disappearing like my mind.
The word is an image of the truth.
The three Magi are still getting there following a star in linguality.
The beautiful statues stand not for but in.
Seed is self-electing. Eh, Valentine?
The suffering is chronic linguistics.
The sentence is there’s no way out of our saying what we’re saying the same.
Like it or not/know it or not. Or not. Order is flexible.
The world is description means it’s all prearranged one word thought at a time.
6 up close and transpersonal
Step away from that belief, sir!
Memory has its passion passion knows not but revs anyway.
Forgetting who I am has a function, waiting to see like waiting to be.
The lips are their own guide.
Better to hang back and be led from a tolerable distance?
The image hangs in the balance.
Lens can’t help pressing in.
Laying on of eyes lifts off.
Form is organistic, making flow in working body.
The fact of one friend willing to follow is hope enough to toughen up.
Poem initiates from outside time though it gets to you from inside, just like rime.
Turning tricks in the beyond’s reading off the cuff in the rough, never enough.
The image hanging by the neck is balancing life on death.
No machina for the deus to pretend she’s in.
Describing the poem is an attempt at history as possible, naturally impossibly given.
It’s that half thinkable edge that gets you out of the trouble you’ve never not been in.
The truly true is only safe in flashes. Hot.
No tracking beyond this point is her living sign of non-abuse.
This is the moment that can’t stop passing, ever.
7 maybe safe in flashes
Getting incurred into where I can’t see going wakes up hearing.
“We’d like it better if the poet would only tell us how to read it.”
Alas poetry can only be half published.
The time release capsule warps time.
A plot plots against the unknown.
Real thoughts wander off, feel better on their own.
The hand in the puppet is entranced.
Attention possesses.
I got what I gave.
A great line is not necessarily a good line, she said to me coming on.
The hot image opens to raw obsession, so I slip up and ask her her name.
I’m studying the back of my hand so when I say I know it I mean it.
History is the mnemonic temporal image housing an agenda.
Never been on a horse midstream but in the mind I go there to change over.
Interdimensional connection does not require piety nor is it mood-sensitive.
Puppets making you think people are voodoo dolls in drag.
Can’t avoid grieving for thoughts wandering off, not finding the way back.
Time weighs in the hand. Writes out, hearable all the way down.
THIRD PART
1 attention possesses
We spend a life plotting out micro mycelial pathways savage to know the way on.
A fair statement shakes down to the tripped in pebbling rhythm.
Who said Welcome guards the door, mi casa no es su casa.
Lie down and take what’s coming. Time to bolt, or batten down?
My martial art with Mars in Leo teaches rancor fisticuffs fairies know as flora fluff.
It’s just energy more intricate than your hands open easy for.
Minding the means mends more than moans.
Don’t know who’s speaking when I feel your voice.
No doubt hazy subject in the syntax is a zone of consorting.
I trip in the gap I’s face round in to see who. You never know till showtime.
You don’t know what the screw she’s saying.
There is talk of the timely timeless, flawed space gaping in skewed wonder.
Hard to let ignorance reign at the midpoint yet mind pumps faster sundered.
The god you summon comes wanting it bad.
Loving chaos is a dimension of vow with windows wide.
There is an indirection more direct than you have imagined in your philosophy.
The goddess you phantasize wants you in bed wants you dead to the dead life.
Language is a trap until it becomes her trap.
A prisonhouse with a trap door. This is not a sequence but an order.
2 loving chaos
You hear with your feet too.
Shin’ichi Hisamatsu to John Cage
I almost had the thought of her but she moved further from my mind.
Despair is not knowing everything both glides and guides.
Look back at the track.
Here is where I learn what I am thinking for the first time.
Maybe the worst consequence of the Garden is obsessive self-improvement.
Walking your talk is not a monologue.
Frog pond town meeting at gloaming.
Word glow in mother mouth is distal meaning with protosexual overtones.
Just energy. A sexy lady with scales and my life in the balance.
No ma’am no way I’m interested in my life story.
Linguality is tonal.
Don’t curl your toes if you wish to hear earth talk.
From itchy shin to hirsute matzoh distal names make old worlds hyperlingual real.
Is sex a subset of play or vice versa? Hierarchies of sense torture.
Here is where for the first time I learn what I am still thinking.
She called herself sexually hyperlingual, I didn’t know where to begin believing.
I learn for the first time what I am self-truly thinking here. Hear here.
Snake torqs through tricky terrain giving torque to vocal earth, and I track back.
3 one polymorph per verse
Kids never stop playing with themselves like lone words.
Suprasegmentals are a bitch.
They play loop de loop with the lines of transmission.
Talk fast direct like free running and still no tangle trippingly.
Good or bad, sad or rad, for the lingual inner her it’s just fad. The scales are her ears.
Tones for tears as in rip tide.
Her/their thoughts are on loan.
The true thought is fractionally ahead of itself calling itself here. Can hurt.
The middle voice leads minutely forward in the pulse of surround.
Don’t break the spell but you find breaks in the spelling. Tangling tingling.
Behold the performative imperative watch its own feet and hearing yours at once.
My personal splits are always finding their center of buoyancy in the syntax afloat.
The fair gender is poly. They’re waving. Get the force.
Saying the word poem does not mean poetry but happening here in loan words.
Dictionaries have liabilities but who can make them pay?
Centuries of debt post-Babel. Now we speak circumtactics in bringing round.
This is how I talk just standing around, facing all sides out and listening in.
Fabulous incunabula’s ancient lies beautiful beyond belief waiting to be true.
They’ll do it if you ask.
4 loan words from beyond
Tone up, tone down, above all make the rounds.
Language is on loan like life.
Reinvent it or be invented.
Lurch your own church like the word from nowhere may as well be the stars.
Dictionary modernism post twists to where life is a loan word.
Self-lending spores come to mind.
You feel it pushing itself in you.
Poetic how it niggles between tingles and lives by night. Scary.
Lift a layer like dirt for the vocal undertone earthbound.
A momentary balance in the utterance before fall-off.
Whoops I’m over. Trying to stand. Get a grip.
Its whole thing is to bring you in so that hearing things is hitting you harder.
A ripple in the rip tone.
A dip in the mind thing.
We can’t help getting our hands in the dirt body heard from under.
What tears you besides tacks in the tactics like hands in pants is saying straighter.
It refers to the feel in the fossa that ditches your story.
There she blows, takes it all up in her word thing matrix twist with the wonder feel.
I get fingered in the gender that spooks the archetropes, word made flash.
5 everything has been away forever until its here
There is no past in beauty.
Jack Spicer
You know when something’s missing thanks to space ache.
What goes here is a puzzler but I’m throwing my arms around them anyway.
No need to be attached to my own mode of emotional integrity, why not yours too.
We came here to split the difference.
Multiple personality reorder orders you to listen intricately through all the limbs.
The main rhythm is pushing at the edges and the pushback from the voiding zone.
You can’t see the spook in the writing or it wouldn’t spook you right.
A trick knee is Hermes in the body, intertactic hiccup.
I’m not fucking you, this is for real. (voice over)
Coyote in the body is always a word ahead like a word per head.
Magic hides well in cracks in the laugh wake.
Sounds like a cat to me. No a baby.
Each utterance invents a logic ripping the mind out of nature in its tide.
Its infra-poetic is local & travels incognito in search of a crossroads. Music junction.
You don’t know the poem until you’re writing it or it you in the mind.
Feel the gravity in turning the corner. Tide function.
At any given moment the polymorphic attitude is exactly more than you figure.
Standing on the Connecticut reef every one wave is the two in the strike.
6 watching it close it’s not a wobble
Attraction comes in levels, tangles, torques, tongues, and takes away, far here.
It’s not a marriage unless there’s an outside homing in.
Still learning each other’s language, meet as 17 year cicadas [recordings available].
You can have me every moment, says the green lady with wings.
Everything is forever and still not entirely here, language is in waiting.
Life keeps stripping bare and showing the folded inner logic intervaginalic.
A new name proves there’s no name.
May each word that says so cut to the sexual part feeling the reading coming.
The poem is half there till you’re there even if you’re only half there too.
This is the worser half getting to know its tutorless self other.
As a kid my brother spoke in police code 10-10, 10-26, 10-4 (let’s go, hurry, yes).
Resistance is autobiographical.
The poem is saying enough already, I ran out long ago.
The dead are speaking because that’s what’s become of them.
There’s only nothing new under the sun when not looking under the moon.
The poem reserves the right to hail from the site unseen, the dark side of belief.
The eyes are in hiding with their pronominal rime.
If the poem teaches thinking outside the fox fun included who’s doing your thinking?
Answering by reading floors under you, verb form, no need to look before you step.
7 conjuncting
It’s not suffering the poet needs but vivid birth resurgence struggle.
Exterior pull of all around hot wet pushed out going cold.
Devagination is versifier par excellence: sucked out to form.
Wandering is the preamble to wondering.
From a to o is to inward go.
Pre-persona births the message the big self-making is zero new.
Talking to yourself is the beginning of not knowing who’s talking.
Taking on new ways reinvents self as rewriting history in bodily bearing.
Whatever gets your golem going.
I’m not me, I said, but I didn’t recognize the voice.
So poem is the place to be other and party with her after all.
Rereading is out of mind experience (OOME), oh me, out of yours is my door out/in.
We’re heading toward the final ringer, clear as a bell when you keep your hands off.
This is no track back to quack quack. We don’t do envy. Slow now.
Tongue tells in ties as well as tales.
The idea of certainty is uncertainty in denial.
Misreading is free. A self-true way to get there nowhere fast. And where else?
The tongue never gives up on being born and clearly loves the taste of matrix.
Bell tone genders its only-a-junction flaring timely.
1 either ahead of yourself or behind
“Walking on water wasn’t built in a day.”
Jack Kerouac while on psilocybin mushrooms,
quoted by Allen Ginsberg
Everything is relative until it’s not.
Not knowing what to think we’re still passing through thinking.
Unconstrained laughter has been delayed by centuries.
Poem to poem is to crossways go.
Contraindicated to decide ontological status beforethought.
Too many events per phrase seems no event at all.
High silliness is still high.
The idea of uncertainty can mask certainty in voyeur mode.
I’m only calling it like it sees me.
A rule of tongue is to read until you hit open.
The gesture is painterly.
I can see you in my sleep.
Fighting for our lives we’ve never stopped pure.
Theorizing uncertainty escapes uncertainty momentarily.
I’m dead sure.
Neither ahead nor behind is here before the beginning.
There’s a timing of moving on just where you are.
When the land of unknowns ejects us again, we shake off worry like a wet dog.
2 mind full being empty
“Can you think at all and not pronounce heartily!”
Blake, Jerusalem, Pl. 77
Still wet behind the anxious ears I’m down to writing my way back in.
Stepping mind aside gives the taut scent of unrecoverable places.
Nostalgia for what is still never quite here and yet always known to be.
Oh to return to lost time and at long last live it.
Where’ve I been all these lives?
Time the incarnational convenience experienced mostly as inconvenience.
Hence the need for rhythm and hearing in place.
A slow learning quick study retains the will to cross the double line. Feel the pulse.
The dark side is the other side of the underside.
No can see far & wide but I hear you clear & loud.
Form of statement may’ve gotten you into hell but sure as hell won’t get you out.
Life needs to study alternative serialities, live it or not.
The trickster daimon inside glossodelia has a job to do, so drop that thought.
Syntax is a line of fracture.
What doesn’t follow must be otherwise true.
Where’ve I been all my life?
Escape into time proves journeying is back.
3 no shortcuts
A poem is a storm at your edge where you fall off from what you know.
The pull is to the point of teeter where anything you say is held against air.
Now to torture some words as even Newton did metals.
All for stone, the! hidden in caverns of verbals, say eye.
The object before you is a strange thing but it is open at both ends.
Born middle first.
A mind of its own meets a mind of your own with full syllables flagrante.
Live into the desire until it knows its absolute.
Time freed from its oppression cordons unbearably beautiful pulsation, pulling out.
The female in the gut is still calling you out.
Not feeling it is not an option.
You asked to come even if you don’t remember.
The long way around is the only way left this side of the edge, so let her out.
High nonsense is still high.
I can offer no defense at this angle and this is only one kind of start. Full stop.
Full stop is impossible. Living contradicts what it interdicts.
The sooner all beginnings are out of the way the sooner we enter their none.
I’m tuning in to the tangle that keeps bringing me here with a body.
A rule of ear is you listen until you hear back from the open.
4 living stories
Lost time is now.
If it’s happening to you it’s happening to me.
On your mark. Sign here. Step on in.
People don’t read this way anymore and they never did.
My door is open and mi casa no es tu casa nor strictly speaking even mine.
In this poem you’re correct for once that I’m coming on to you.
Don’t trouble yourself with predetermining the register of an utterance.
Self-organizing life is a wild child smiling through the window you thought home.
“George says all I have to do is be beautiful,” said Larry. I nod (is that a yes?).
Start with the law in your name like laurel leaves fiercely free in pointless space.
Get set. The antidote to seduction is an incomprehensible come on.
Attitude is a defense against insignificance.
Will love or love will the last hope is confusion.
Poetry is born of the knowledge we can’t be trusted.
Thinking terror is homeland to the father tongue.
I suffer initiation willingly but evidently I stop short of inviting serpents in my brain.
I’m waiting for the command to jump in her voice.
Sensing by length of wave from the word, Go.
5 state of brain, state of request
How you come in on a love site says you never get a second chance first impression.
Slant inflects desire.
A girl in the salad is raw appetite gone wild.
Please check my oil and my eyes.
Thinking doesn’t necessarily reach thing status on demand.
Evidently there is a total own. Such a thing.
Cutting across your backyard inflects desire.
This is that you have the time of your mind.
The first time she said fuck I felt reborn life imitating dream.
Did something call time out?
Touch in real life is an absolute.
If the capitol of a state of mind is in the larynx, law enforcement is in the fingertips.
Don’t ask what I think, it’s a bad question.
And maybe I don’t feel like telling, said the Pythian.
So many fundamentalisms you’d think they’d notice crowd of kind.
Reference wounds history further.
Retribution is out of the question.
Is calling time out, speaking poetically, like looking for shade?
If she’d said get laid would I have awakened from the dazed state so urgently?
6 caverns of verbals
I dream I enter an earth enclosure at a crossed sign ATTENTION! Attention tension!
I start rubbing my eyes to get at my brain.
The middle ear has an itch, to speak metaphorically of upright imbalance.
Entities arguably competing for ownership of my property never quite show up.
White serpents under the willow suck angry water skyhigh, life storms.
I may as well be dreaming.
A god is what wants what you want even more than you can imagine.
Not surrendering disbelief is not surrendering belief.
Make sense at your own risk.
The necessary notion is own rhythm known in the possessive imperative.
Self-owning does it all, with tuning.
Signs of the times claim rimes inside lines.
Rhythm is how it hits you and where.
Words open interiors like inward earth with its geomantic property.
They magnetize by proximity, with listening.
Ear to the ground for verbal sound inflects the musical outflare.
If we weren’t tracking an unknown interior we’d hardly be having this conversation.
The ear slipping around the bass torsion sidles momentary base sense. It’s a scare.
It has start-up in the round.
7 dynamics of gender
Thank you for the opportunity to oscillate identities.
Hand in hand is mind in mind, selectively.
In the world and out around the clock and not.
Never enough life for some of us still on the free run.
I also see my attachment in a detached sort of way.
Ignoring the look Mom no hands aspect of poetics the streamer arms may flare.
Danglers are anglers.
I grew up scared, mostly.
I was a boy not having met her. You, me, the still closing in.
We went to school to learn to read but they taught us mainly to manage mindblocks.
I’m still heading home and you’re in the way so you must be on the way too.
Yet in the tight totally dark room my claustrophobia lost out to vast space.
No speaking when spoken to—this is a place of ushership.
Even urgent events of mind leave sparse tracks.
Each is its own absolute.
Its feeling of time bearing down is from behind.
She leans us in to the hot site of selves that strictly speaking opens between us.
SECOND PART
1 gaping sound
Age disagrees.
I still hear them asking for me from across the aisle along the sometimes abyss.
Beatrice in the star cart et alia my qualia.
Forgive me I’m ambiguating, it’s natural when replacing the world.
Stone by tone by own known, it’s a long hall.
Nothing is built but it’s listened full length.
In short you can’t skip belief at the forefront where the real is first to degrade.
That goes for the best of the others with the alien feathers.
What you see is what gets you. In the gloam, as they used to say.
I promise to walk the crooked mile without going crooked.
This is where serpentine intends the bend.
It’s a state of mind where state sheds capitol.
I got skin for brains.
Hence the hunt for a poetics in wrap mode.
Most at home is where blood flows propriative in surround.
Sound unbound like sporangium.
What you get is what you see bellyfirst and power lower.
Spore spreads by rupture always ready to rime with rapture.
Language longs to sing things into being.
2 the long shadow of the precarious
While falling I try to notice up close the onrushing skin of the planet, it’s a she.
Signals in space are hungry for your brain.
Seeing elves you know they see you first liking being watched.
Aryhthmiatica’s heartwild mimesis of your everyday up/down no-way feeling stairs.
You never see what it is until it sees you through.
No point holding back, like I say it’s a she, and this is her mirror you face.
Not about knowing where you’re going but you’re seeing in your turn.
Language is a miraculous mess just like yourself.
Heartbeats or jungle music, your partner to your jaguar rising’s snared in words.
Reading writing & rhythmatic, so study wild.
Like the bird you are never flies too high. You’re never too high. This is the sky.
Death is only your own.
Now say that in your language, she said, I’m like you hearing things, they show alive.
Stop the world I want to get back on.
It’s important to mind the height you speak from.
One’s language has to take responsibility for creating life.
And the contrary. Hence the need for a poetics of homuncularity.
The sound of aeons in our laughing ourselves into being compacts as we go.
3 trying on thoughts
Nudity is not ludity.
Gregory Bateson
We outlive our thoughts until they wise up and make their own way, and world.
I’m reporting the leaks but not the leaker.
If you knew the thought was from space how could you say no.
I need to assume a no-taboo atmosphere else the thought won’t come out and play.
If it’s real to say it has a way.
I’m getting excited in reserve.
No making hay in a swerve.
Dance of the sugar tongue mushrooms.
They’re all talk and a subtext, giving teachings is receiving. Spore talk.
All attempts to understand are thought experiments in experimental minds.
Impossible to track all the moments, thanks to our gourmet angels.
Entities are gathering in threes hereabouts, the mysterious number, & clicking teeth.
Click click click how the rhythm addicts in the half pain it inflicts.
No techno gizmo can the heart pulse supplant save we entrance.
What catches opens to raw obsession.
What makes itself up knows how to let itself go.
I degrade with her apple.
She eats my rose or I thought it was mine until this.
4 spore talk
“They didn’t know what they were saying, and we don’t know
what we’re saying, but we think we’re saying the same thing.”
Jerry Garcia
The realizing mind is not inside the thought.
I spark between galaxies just letting it enter my mind.
The thought of you as I think of her teaches unbirthing, cuts me loose as seed.
I’m not from here. I’m where I’m heading. Fly through just to know you true.
Communication is grabbing hold on the fly.
Never too high is sky mind. Unwind.
Unbind by sound.
And that’s no way to talk to your poem, sounding commanding.
Lest tongue let go no show.
Only the seed is in the know.
Only the deed too quick to show.
The realizing song is not inside the poem.
Step away from that object, sir.
Loving your creation makes your offspring their images.
Verbal souls are fetal molds.
If only we could pick up on the words before they’re long gone.
I suspect them of playing artificial reincarnation.
Metaphors in space prove themselves as secret sex gone virtual.
If one belief goes down, no belief is safe.
5 situational syntactical
Are we saying the same thing yet?
She said the heart talking guilt is not the heart talking.
Saying me seems to mean we tonight, and saying you I don’t know who.
One. Pronominal numerical intensity identity.
There’s one fewer than two and greater than all. This may require warrior’s belief.
A year goes missing like a misbegotten number.
Memory suffers.
No doubt my inner homunculus knows better.
What is your status, sir? Cop preemption.
I see a unicorn disappearing like my mind.
The word is an image of the truth.
The three Magi are still getting there following a star in linguality.
The beautiful statues stand not for but in.
Seed is self-electing. Eh, Valentine?
The suffering is chronic linguistics.
The sentence is there’s no way out of our saying what we’re saying the same.
Like it or not/know it or not. Or not. Order is flexible.
The world is description means it’s all prearranged one word thought at a time.
6 up close and transpersonal
Step away from that belief, sir!
Memory has its passion passion knows not but revs anyway.
Forgetting who I am has a function, waiting to see like waiting to be.
The lips are their own guide.
Better to hang back and be led from a tolerable distance?
The image hangs in the balance.
Lens can’t help pressing in.
Laying on of eyes lifts off.
Form is organistic, making flow in working body.
The fact of one friend willing to follow is hope enough to toughen up.
Poem initiates from outside time though it gets to you from inside, just like rime.
Turning tricks in the beyond’s reading off the cuff in the rough, never enough.
The image hanging by the neck is balancing life on death.
No machina for the deus to pretend she’s in.
Describing the poem is an attempt at history as possible, naturally impossibly given.
It’s that half thinkable edge that gets you out of the trouble you’ve never not been in.
The truly true is only safe in flashes. Hot.
No tracking beyond this point is her living sign of non-abuse.
This is the moment that can’t stop passing, ever.
7 maybe safe in flashes
Getting incurred into where I can’t see going wakes up hearing.
“We’d like it better if the poet would only tell us how to read it.”
Alas poetry can only be half published.
The time release capsule warps time.
A plot plots against the unknown.
Real thoughts wander off, feel better on their own.
The hand in the puppet is entranced.
Attention possesses.
I got what I gave.
A great line is not necessarily a good line, she said to me coming on.
The hot image opens to raw obsession, so I slip up and ask her her name.
I’m studying the back of my hand so when I say I know it I mean it.
History is the mnemonic temporal image housing an agenda.
Never been on a horse midstream but in the mind I go there to change over.
Interdimensional connection does not require piety nor is it mood-sensitive.
Puppets making you think people are voodoo dolls in drag.
Can’t avoid grieving for thoughts wandering off, not finding the way back.
Time weighs in the hand. Writes out, hearable all the way down.
THIRD PART
1 attention possesses
We spend a life plotting out micro mycelial pathways savage to know the way on.
A fair statement shakes down to the tripped in pebbling rhythm.
Who said Welcome guards the door, mi casa no es su casa.
Lie down and take what’s coming. Time to bolt, or batten down?
My martial art with Mars in Leo teaches rancor fisticuffs fairies know as flora fluff.
It’s just energy more intricate than your hands open easy for.
Minding the means mends more than moans.
Don’t know who’s speaking when I feel your voice.
No doubt hazy subject in the syntax is a zone of consorting.
I trip in the gap I’s face round in to see who. You never know till showtime.
You don’t know what the screw she’s saying.
There is talk of the timely timeless, flawed space gaping in skewed wonder.
Hard to let ignorance reign at the midpoint yet mind pumps faster sundered.
The god you summon comes wanting it bad.
Loving chaos is a dimension of vow with windows wide.
There is an indirection more direct than you have imagined in your philosophy.
The goddess you phantasize wants you in bed wants you dead to the dead life.
Language is a trap until it becomes her trap.
A prisonhouse with a trap door. This is not a sequence but an order.
2 loving chaos
You hear with your feet too.
Shin’ichi Hisamatsu to John Cage
I almost had the thought of her but she moved further from my mind.
Despair is not knowing everything both glides and guides.
Look back at the track.
Here is where I learn what I am thinking for the first time.
Maybe the worst consequence of the Garden is obsessive self-improvement.
Walking your talk is not a monologue.
Frog pond town meeting at gloaming.
Word glow in mother mouth is distal meaning with protosexual overtones.
Just energy. A sexy lady with scales and my life in the balance.
No ma’am no way I’m interested in my life story.
Linguality is tonal.
Don’t curl your toes if you wish to hear earth talk.
From itchy shin to hirsute matzoh distal names make old worlds hyperlingual real.
Is sex a subset of play or vice versa? Hierarchies of sense torture.
Here is where for the first time I learn what I am still thinking.
She called herself sexually hyperlingual, I didn’t know where to begin believing.
I learn for the first time what I am self-truly thinking here. Hear here.
Snake torqs through tricky terrain giving torque to vocal earth, and I track back.
3 one polymorph per verse
Kids never stop playing with themselves like lone words.
Suprasegmentals are a bitch.
They play loop de loop with the lines of transmission.
Talk fast direct like free running and still no tangle trippingly.
Good or bad, sad or rad, for the lingual inner her it’s just fad. The scales are her ears.
Tones for tears as in rip tide.
Her/their thoughts are on loan.
The true thought is fractionally ahead of itself calling itself here. Can hurt.
The middle voice leads minutely forward in the pulse of surround.
Don’t break the spell but you find breaks in the spelling. Tangling tingling.
Behold the performative imperative watch its own feet and hearing yours at once.
My personal splits are always finding their center of buoyancy in the syntax afloat.
The fair gender is poly. They’re waving. Get the force.
Saying the word poem does not mean poetry but happening here in loan words.
Dictionaries have liabilities but who can make them pay?
Centuries of debt post-Babel. Now we speak circumtactics in bringing round.
This is how I talk just standing around, facing all sides out and listening in.
Fabulous incunabula’s ancient lies beautiful beyond belief waiting to be true.
They’ll do it if you ask.
4 loan words from beyond
Tone up, tone down, above all make the rounds.
Language is on loan like life.
Reinvent it or be invented.
Lurch your own church like the word from nowhere may as well be the stars.
Dictionary modernism post twists to where life is a loan word.
Self-lending spores come to mind.
You feel it pushing itself in you.
Poetic how it niggles between tingles and lives by night. Scary.
Lift a layer like dirt for the vocal undertone earthbound.
A momentary balance in the utterance before fall-off.
Whoops I’m over. Trying to stand. Get a grip.
Its whole thing is to bring you in so that hearing things is hitting you harder.
A ripple in the rip tone.
A dip in the mind thing.
We can’t help getting our hands in the dirt body heard from under.
What tears you besides tacks in the tactics like hands in pants is saying straighter.
It refers to the feel in the fossa that ditches your story.
There she blows, takes it all up in her word thing matrix twist with the wonder feel.
I get fingered in the gender that spooks the archetropes, word made flash.
5 everything has been away forever until its here
There is no past in beauty.
Jack Spicer
You know when something’s missing thanks to space ache.
What goes here is a puzzler but I’m throwing my arms around them anyway.
No need to be attached to my own mode of emotional integrity, why not yours too.
We came here to split the difference.
Multiple personality reorder orders you to listen intricately through all the limbs.
The main rhythm is pushing at the edges and the pushback from the voiding zone.
You can’t see the spook in the writing or it wouldn’t spook you right.
A trick knee is Hermes in the body, intertactic hiccup.
I’m not fucking you, this is for real. (voice over)
Coyote in the body is always a word ahead like a word per head.
Magic hides well in cracks in the laugh wake.
Sounds like a cat to me. No a baby.
Each utterance invents a logic ripping the mind out of nature in its tide.
Its infra-poetic is local & travels incognito in search of a crossroads. Music junction.
You don’t know the poem until you’re writing it or it you in the mind.
Feel the gravity in turning the corner. Tide function.
At any given moment the polymorphic attitude is exactly more than you figure.
Standing on the Connecticut reef every one wave is the two in the strike.
6 watching it close it’s not a wobble
Attraction comes in levels, tangles, torques, tongues, and takes away, far here.
It’s not a marriage unless there’s an outside homing in.
Still learning each other’s language, meet as 17 year cicadas [recordings available].
You can have me every moment, says the green lady with wings.
Everything is forever and still not entirely here, language is in waiting.
Life keeps stripping bare and showing the folded inner logic intervaginalic.
A new name proves there’s no name.
May each word that says so cut to the sexual part feeling the reading coming.
The poem is half there till you’re there even if you’re only half there too.
This is the worser half getting to know its tutorless self other.
As a kid my brother spoke in police code 10-10, 10-26, 10-4 (let’s go, hurry, yes).
Resistance is autobiographical.
The poem is saying enough already, I ran out long ago.
The dead are speaking because that’s what’s become of them.
There’s only nothing new under the sun when not looking under the moon.
The poem reserves the right to hail from the site unseen, the dark side of belief.
The eyes are in hiding with their pronominal rime.
If the poem teaches thinking outside the fox fun included who’s doing your thinking?
Answering by reading floors under you, verb form, no need to look before you step.
7 conjuncting
It’s not suffering the poet needs but vivid birth resurgence struggle.
Exterior pull of all around hot wet pushed out going cold.
Devagination is versifier par excellence: sucked out to form.
Wandering is the preamble to wondering.
From a to o is to inward go.
Pre-persona births the message the big self-making is zero new.
Talking to yourself is the beginning of not knowing who’s talking.
Taking on new ways reinvents self as rewriting history in bodily bearing.
Whatever gets your golem going.
I’m not me, I said, but I didn’t recognize the voice.
So poem is the place to be other and party with her after all.
Rereading is out of mind experience (OOME), oh me, out of yours is my door out/in.
We’re heading toward the final ringer, clear as a bell when you keep your hands off.
This is no track back to quack quack. We don’t do envy. Slow now.
Tongue tells in ties as well as tales.
The idea of certainty is uncertainty in denial.
Misreading is free. A self-true way to get there nowhere fast. And where else?
The tongue never gives up on being born and clearly loves the taste of matrix.
Bell tone genders its only-a-junction flaring timely.