Five Poems from Genius Foci and Hilaritas Sublime

Link to George Quasha reading Genius Foci on PennSound

real is no bottom line

Mapping the territory’s speaking for itself where no one’s listening.
The tracking’s not for memory but passing through true.

Thinking I should stand back from life I realize I already did.
Looking out is looking in.

Nature makes us tools.
Sharp seen things position us on the outs with what’s in.

The message wakes up on a slant.
You end up chasing down the comic.

In the hidden picture birds fly for the invisible they almost are.
Our thoughts behave us so.

To verb or not to verb.
The abstraction enlightenment is blinding.

I’ll take my thinking out of the blue.
I go reflexive when it types me by the middle.

Nature enjoys the senseless.
By birds it means fly through creaturehood.

Abstraction is binding.
I get tired not telling the full truth even knowing it’s impossible.

Scarcely creatures.

the elephant in the bloom

Still trying to make eye contact with life in the rush?
Hard to tell by the sound which way’s out and what’s facing up.
How many melodies can hum you at once?

Ambiguating scale casts a wider truth net shaking to a diverse core.
A new verbal frame lets the new word find its meanings.

A line truly comes where your wave peaks.
Spray shows its face. And a terrible logic is born.
It all happens fractalic angular and off edge.

Apologies in its not singing your mind to sleep.
The hypnosis of scenic terror plumbs deeper.
What’s called poem’s by force the great unspoken overrushing rocks.

Rock records terrifying motion substantially telling time.
Recall plant reach vividly as it cuts you across.
Anything unreachable is over an abyss.

It can say itself in you without ever realizing. Face up.
A new word finds its meanings where no one looks.
A line ends when its wave peaks, so life like.

The movie is in the tangle turning tricks in gloried retort.
We live in vertiginous times rimes with alternate sublimes.
Ganesh or Bambi surrender’s in flush and all eyes report back in time.

Many swirls or maybe worlds and the direction is power out and over.

horses within horses

I could run my fingers through these strands of stranding words.
A text is a weave that holds me out until I give.
Reading textures getting held in the holding.
It competes with you like wind in your hair.

Closing in on a world shows it its alter worlds while standing back.
Half of you reaches a gallop the rest of you watches over if only to stroke.

Through this onrushing window scape pictures fleet viewing now occurring.
O Orphée I’m still undergoing your mercurial mirror imaging alien.

Everything is the last of its own while first in seeing.
No way out of the givenness of the world or why this gratefulness in grief?

The inescapable principle all in moderation dreams the road of excess wise palace.
I beat myself to the punch to go bareback between the lineaments still desiring.

I feel myself being dreamed at a certain angle and then the shift.
I still can’t follow my own pretensions even with all this non-cohering feedback.

I get the picture sweet to be co-real with an alien reading getting under your skin.
The view suffers you.

Fear of own subject making self an object gets kicked out of imageless torpor.
Every thought is a journey to the end now occurring.

no days off for alchemists

The world means there’s one of everything and you don’t know the name.
The more a thing’s itself the color’s the contrast at first blush.

All communication keeps secret routes.
We find the markers amidst the strewn.

You can’t make it more real by evidence.
Speaking is by rights with no contrariety to wrongs.

I is not subject to denial.
Skull is where it recognizes itself as if written in stone.

If the description would persist in its folly it would become vice wise.
Thing is what comes to its name through a speaker.

Stand back if you know where the front is.
We are stages in our network with wide feed.

We go to the wall for time.
There’s no evidence I’m more real than time in rock.

Don’t think the world doesn’t register you talk to yourself, says stone.
Space is where this is the best I don’t know how.

diversity is a state of syntax

I find myself wondering by layer.
A man knows herself knowing himself.
Trusting stepping in place positions seeing in surround.

Why think one thing after another if it’s already knowing how it should go.
I can only tell what it says by framing magic.
I can’t tell what’s not good until I myself am told. Outloud.

Things say only what they seem despite keeping the appearances opportunely.
Thinking in feet is an alternate reality.
There’s every way on earth to face up.

Just because a thing is itself doesn’t make it look like it.
You know it’s itself looking straight at you.
If I knew everything I see I know I could hardly handle it.

You can tell when a thing has given up on examples.
It never gives up on its own instance even thinking it knows better.
It says so much more than it has to say.

What on earth is a mouth.
Speaking is opening and closing with something left behind.
Seeing embeds.

Suddenly feeling three feet imagines further its turf.
Scaling in is only now occurring.