makeup sculpts Poem by George Quasha

I'm feeling by ear.

Consider them gods and not cruel but ecstatic.
They have trick tongues and can't talk straight but use us as waves to curve words.
In this moment we are here for their ride. Climb on under.
Transport poetics in the transtraditionals, revering rumors revved high.
We ask forgiveness for poem talk. I'm on her knees.

She makes me say these things because she is a middle way like no other.

The method is to wear me down to a base line vital pulse.
Next pour right through carefully following the barely perceptible impulse.
Almost dreams the state resists the name but go ahead and call it poetic that flares.
Poetics remains neutral on its name but takes care when it comes to hers.
There's a watch out on her names.

It makes me wait until I have nothing else to fight with and then sets me loose.

When I think what is being said I get a lump in the stomach.
No go on the intellectual gizmo.
Yes on any kind of lift, free run, no drift, too swift, the actual thing getting a lift.
It hits the beat like rock bottom.
The tongue gets hands on quick.

The hearback suddenly gets high in the sense of crossing right on over.