Krishnamurti
and Trungpa talk
and disappoint
as there is no silence
from the one
that does not divide.
the silence
arrives from before
as I am
to be from…
the snow
the tropics
the silence
does not carry
with those here
in this town
on earth
or does it?
she holds
to the tree
as it grows
stronger
in the wind
she is the earth
that is noise
and poison
for what purpose?
she is the earth
that found me
to live free
where we hurry
toward a cliff?
to live free
in the timeless
shorelines
held hostage
by hawks
coyotes
and the deer?
she brought me
a life — she and she
and she
the three together
as one woman
young
equal
and aged
in one
and three times
the most fused
embrace
of the earth
scabs
the fields
executions
I have seen
but have not seen
programs
behind the scenes
a throbbing world
of light
a vision
machine
(of hermaphrodites
and midgets)
no
more layers
between us
keyboards
and a screen
to make a ground
to disconnect
and live
for the games
of disappearance
or for me to walk
to the other side
of the lake
around
and through
where my friends
live?
in Chicago?
our silent moments
are necessary
as the air
does not belong
to country — but no music
arrives
all of it is here
I hear it
here
as I love her
to destroy myself
and see my name
as if for the first time
my face
returns again
to the coasts
destroyed
and loving
to see there
on this side
to believe
as I was there once
to live
Here
to have a home
as refuge
in the silence
of the ritual
of death
of humans
across
the street
at Heritage
funereal.
the line
does not carry
how do I prevent
myself
from doing harm?
I fill balloons
with blood
and lob them back
to those
I took it from
far away
I lie to myself
of my own personal
sacrifice
to where the edge
of cutting comes
from outside
labeled “love”
but writing “harm”
to be deciphered
a long time after
here
she
in her wisdom
of old
grows
in me
believing
that one world
does not know
as I
do not know
myself
to speak of
with you
a son
of evil
the greatest
of all problems
is love
thought
makes it so
shallow waters
pour
into the oceans
and are cut
by the rain
either
I do not know
how to love
or
I do not love
and
I am homeless
as the earth
is homelss
the one
shining
distant
beauty
of youth
burns
far away
pristine
into the air
imploded
like an old
mushroom
endlessly
knowledge
brings sorrow
and thought
is not mind
as she grows
another
for the world
in Chiapas
explosions
of the stars
to guide us
a white
angel
of exception
to which the war
is rooted
she loves
without me
I am
to love
the world
as one
is wrong
in this
her picture
shines at me
from many places
her home
is my home
her ruptures
send me
to the fires
there is no one
there, as everyone
is in you
I see one
and all
before me
I turn
to move
and see
another
I help her
making holes
and love
to help
to make
a home
in this neighborhood
of our nearby
Latin light
past race?
as we wander
Indian Summer
and I accept
her deerskin
desire, like
Neil Young
embraced
calm
within myself
pummeling
the butchered word
of Others
Jesus
what chaos
will not be
the sea? none?
it’s the same
with everyone?
is it?
really? why do I see
peace
in others
in love? and not
myself? what are
these wounds
and can I
blame
them? I do not see
myself
with you, regardless
of who
you are
is this the curse
of being
on the ground
and making?
a solitary
sentence
of endless
black dots
period?
hanging pictures
hanging Molas
I make my rooms
as refuge
from display
does the silence
fill the light
of the moon
with darkness
in which to sleep
in a rage,
peacefully?
even the false
starts that remain
false
do not arrive
at the slightest
answer?
even the loving
advice
that’ll drop me
into temporary
limits
from the wrinkle
of light
of a momentary friend?
where there is
no silence? of love?
even my saying
that no one
knows
does not help
those of us
who do not
know
and say
they agree
and see. all is hell
to speak
and think of
in a Christian world
before the fullness
of the Void. even love
does not carry
except in Nature
exterminated
for the Home
to speak of
in Silence
.
soon
I will be dead
I live
and see
with the borrowed
eyes of arrested answers
join me
in a blind
vision
of animals
or dissolve
like the sun does
and the stars
that cut
the moon
and deliver me
to bleed —
a prolonged squealing
of a rabbit
as she breaks its neck
to end this here
for you
.
a moth enters
the dark
empty rooms
and erases
with a patter
of its wings
the knots
of the night
as the light
of the ringing
bells outside
push it through
to end there
.
start here
Roberto Harrison (© 2010)