by George Quasha

Flower seeing turns birth by concrete.

The way out is up the wall, why is it no one will try this method?

One line one strand hosts its further strands.
There’s a geometry for every quake every twist of the tongue.

Alternative sequencing makes me wonder where I am to be.
Self evolves by cartoon on close examination.

How you know is how you let it show.
I see the graphemes on the wall, biblically speaking.

This is how we make the world go clown.
An alternate line is streaming under pressing for a crack.

The writing is on the world.
My one strand body focus yields to the speaker to come.

Line of sight follows the strand most me till another me comes out to show me.
It’s a ride one way or another.

One meaning or another re-versely sees exist in exit.
Is a word a thought or a thing come to reflect.

Status is optional.
The double dream mode has me in ambi-valence line.

Wondering thickens.

by George Quasha

Believing what you see gets you through the day and night falling away.
Believing what you read gets you through the book getting under your skin.

Science discovers itself in a state of not knowing it’s believing.
Cherish your judgment so efficiently displaying attachment for real.

Is heart in the body heart in the mind recording everything that’s been still on?
Here on the lookout turning to shoutout signs fall short of verbal on/off.

by George Quasha

Radically desiring the two sides flipped.
Who’s that sound like groundwork speaking up that I hear it even now.

The ground discipline is keeping myself in the dark the better to not misthink.
The creatureliness of my human is caught eating through rooted linguality.

In the other senses it’s all flag-waving distraction more mumble than rubble.
The earth keeps breaking out of the frame we name it into.

Brain filters, science believes what it sees, moving body thinks on.
The salamander gets its foot in the poet’s mouth.

There are no natural symbols but believing one thinks for itself.
Science is locating my brain site of nature thinking for me.

by George Quasha

The demons we miss are the ones that charm us.
We act in behalf of half-brain halving of truth seeing thereby the truer.

Language is willing to fake it.