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)