Roberto Harrison

finish, lie dead on the sorrow bed. stiff and related to your furrowed, underlined, intention . . . shit there, with the injected vellum that seeks your heart. from machine with this Wake, this egg frost beacon on the SHORE — you, Wane, U.S., Wane itches on piled money spent, tiny boil. Seem, THEN your crucified microscope, shimmering train railed on decided work. this is WAKE, this means BEGIN, your main() with her. peace, walking through city pulses, end their made up Western, singing its shore borrowed and stained with missiles. LOG warns this is magical rivers, NOT tongue to be salvaged or interred with any one place that has hers. win there — placed like dirt on the shoe place warns. all letters, all Eastern locks penciled in with dog interiors, let go the chain. Hopped up winds, and the granite falling through any retrial that was schooling-less . . . without Agamemnon warning in pushed hires and radio made PINS. on THEN to an eye full of tunnels, real I/O

i make signs everywhere, with sticks, stones and leaves for those in the clouds from below the line to arrive i don’t have a language to speak to you with, my tongues are all fish i know that a one is a circle, and that nothing is round, except every corner i saw by the hearts lined up on the spine i know that the winter will finally be here again, and that the summer will die and be born with its ice i unravel the token you gave me for freedom, i bury the flags in your eyes under each Arabic sign. . . 1,2,3, on and on. . . and before i varnish again all the battle grounds freed          to travel the face of 2 yews i remake every button with children put down by 5 tons of your crosses i am flaking with crust at the dangling ushers        they fall for light signs i make my car shake with my fear, the headlights are showing me songs by the road for the now disappeared, shots crack by the ones that remain i can tell by your lies and your pride that your heart is as small as your pupils opening up for your strokes and getting smaller for light i am the siphon that gravity fills up the blanks in your face with i sing a throat full of gritos, for the safety releases that shots spill for you i salivate for your spiraling warmth, in the morning when i collapse, over and over i have all our love letters taped to the ceiling, my sleep is the end of our flies their warbles keep rolling i double the maps on your roads i put a slab of meat on your cheeks i thaw every word that pours ends through your blood i turn in the hair that your father hung with, erasers ring mountains for more i pick up a chair for the lightning, satellites put out a bead i bleed in the real that you see with a shine, pieces of chicken pile up to count nukes i tear off the rain, and cut its numerical age into passing truck tombs i force your faces to mine, and bother your ebony whirls to circle the holes in the sky i fire electrons to make your promise discard its word, and fall through i tie miseries to drains, and pay off my debt with suns i am more cruel than a counter i pick a safe with your words, until my distance is short i slap at your monthly returns, and tie your animals to 5 dirt seas i ride through your roads in the glass, and steal tiny cracks i blame the small stone       hid       in my colorless mouth, and pin rags to your lips i volunteer for your wars, and lose them all i borrow your daydreams, and purse up their gardens, into our hands i pulse with you standing by rocks i say all you said by the iron door i throw kites in the room where they found me i sell off inseparable fingers i throw windows to walls i whispers hard rings into telephones, and scratch at the bed i fade into water i remember the hands i open holes through barbed houses i blow darts through your tunnels and doors i pile roofs through our wounds i move through your runs and your screens i see the news in the sand i digit up noontimes i peel off my skins with old sounds i walk through the valley of lead i unplug your pages of light i frost over programs and ride            3 roads on 5 deer

like the lost car that a river knows like the heat of an ointment in pinpoints of breathing like the unknown western in mountains of tar like a knot in each word for comfort like a horse on a face with four hooves like the knives that a heart squirms into like the feel that the last day pushes, that a fire paints red like the shower that a plain divides in snakes like a frozen torso pining for food like the ammunition that a pair of wings makes dry like a shirt that plants seeds under worn out skin like the clouds of mistakes, pouring through sleep like the walls that crack open like a wake in a spin like the exits of oceans that a salmon knows like the dust that is written with number like a trust full of beacons of light like the negative shade of a fungus like the promise that a lie gives out like the pulse of a trap like the rainbow that cuts off a hand like a psychic intent full of negative calls like salt for the season that covers the fields with jail like the round word that a star pisser pulls like the plains that a crossed out calendar day will mourn like the fate of the wrong side of talking like hills under snow that a letter revolves like the husky reflections of leeches that writhe like a sword in Toledo like the animals growing a vent in a cage like the sequence of nights dropping straw for a cipher like the trade in the fair full of cycles and ends like the cattle that heat all the drains with green grass like the nipples of outdoor intentions like a wing on the door that a glass makes arise like the underground fluid of digitized words like the ice in a cavern like a ride through the green light of dying like the yellowish herd of relational cards like the face that a wallet becomes like the wrong line of radios making a rule like the crust on the last day of hunger like the rodeo riding the real for a cut like the cells in the spread of the fall like an ape for the circle of color like reflections that turn on a wheel like the freezer of sweethearts like a change for the current that makes a return like the pause on the shore full of rattles like the oxygen tent making holes in a lung the face of friendly fire is knotted for a smile deleted for a smile that saves the executioner the face intended jail, by rocking through the holes that fear the clear blue family of dots the face resembles next to nothing in the network full of incremental touches that a string intends to limit by the light the face of arctic evolutions, a hunt that people came to read instead of mapping all the flights of sleep without a sound the face of terrible returns will fade outside the pouring crowd of animal relation in the mineral of wealth the face of providence is making shores for surfers in the foam of magnifying eyes that are the opposite of winter calm the face is never there in each intention that the worst reliance knows to ask for heat the face is after every opening that makes a number count for all of what is good like a robot that falls and makes good for a switch like the breasts of a mop that soaks blood like a magnifying glass for the sun like the picture of radar in space like a misery flood on the phone like electrical laughter that the pointed shake like enemies held in a double embrace like extinctions returning like a handshake of style for the heat like the flower that bottles a fly for a mouth like the still dunes of dust on a beautiful girl like the crack in an oven like a moon that gets brighter with age

¿are you on the other side waiting for alarms in a desert of sleepless evaporations? ¿are you beside yourself in the aisles that distance makes shorter than light waves in the daylight that pounds a lead slab in the soup that the winter dissolves? ¿are you the signal that another plane carves into wings in rounded contusions of a late afternoon storm, full of sparks that the night hurries out on Locust and serial cheeks shrouded in shiny costumes? ¿are you a circle like juntas that the winter makes clear on the shaved orbiting molecule that the ear revolves around, in a retreat of explosive fossils? ¿are you memorizing the connections between the hand and the foot and the torso in reverse of the automatic? ¿are you materializing the unknown without weather to increase the planet otherwise? ¿are you pocketing the insurance claims that parkas and snow equips with sutures and hand grenades? ¿forever? ¿are you increasing the tackle box full of piers to widen the sea and shorten circuits full of trees? ¿are you feeding the unworn through a parallel shapelessness in desert blooms on the roots of a tarp milking masks? ¿are you remodeling the world as a breathing action doll? ¿are you calm for knots like the guardian hell that a sewer makes for angels in their last testimony skewered like the pony was? ¿are you freezing in the open course that half of everything enumerates like clouds? ¿are you unwound in a fear that a jacket stores for feed, in easy shows and rented faces on the pain of entry? ¿are you good like ovens?

There’s a dispute as to whether a name can be given to mills or not. If an essential root is given to one arm, they might be revolvers in insect’s casings, winding down a river of dirt in giving you, America, too small a thimble, the carcass of instruction and wavy, diminutive hand signals. From a cracked stone mouthing, to an unplayed game (still wrapped), to the skin of my plastic voice. There is a slow moving, not fast like the static form of urban frames. If you want (and here is IF, again, with indecision) to describe misdirected outcroppings from a battery of daylight shells, I mean light, I mean dark colored turtles, one map giving birth to another, this, flown heavy with rupture and landed after a piece was found. Not enough. There is a simple solution to your house, and my wooden block. One politic NOT on top of an Other, as one’s head is wrapped in a box, in a hole. Spittle looms swim, bide time clicks, made queues on an S, connected to separate one from a ONE, towels, in seeing an ocean first and making Balboan curves, you know there are all kinds of sticks. A brick, painted with soft hair, builds up questions to age and blacken linings, whip tailed lizards, their eyes are what implants carbonized blinking, placed alongside letters, the hold on becoming an END. Chips give sound to fingers, the Oh returning in flowing error, twice committed. Flood. Not a zero or a one, as if cornered with prostituted faces leaning outward, an Escape weighing about an army of lip collectors and fused hands and their whispers of Xs as in 2 again or more. There is the border of skin there is the border of membrane there is the border of number. Tongues firing the burned and buried. 2 and on, and THEN its disappearance. Invisibility solidified, a welt on a willow. You know a letter, a cache in a person. Memory management errors undone. Fluid as blood. Blood as a turning through time.

grown to give this gun to you that sings around another metal grip inside the stall that goes against the marker that has cuts and calculates their known deception, something ran instead around the parked encircles disks. wagon, tent was all that heard, no mouths were twice together found or borrowed in the ceiling of another torso promising this twice together head, this push through veins that gives your death another word, another his, another whipping rain with any arm and any end finished — pocketed amount that goes around the dust inside their word, their forest cut like wounded deer in sights they have you down around the bear that stole and bit no wash, no jail in beaming what had nothing in this earth to speak the level of their tongue that is all know, and all the S that Panamá has had in hand with me, I dream you were my heart all sewn together by their was and is is known right now

no more windows ESCape the unwound protection that heals an amorphous child, won deterrence         Voodoo bags inhibit the murder that stories tell, the incisions on our drums ‘que nuestro pais se cuenta sin hablar’ pushing on determined corn husks. count the zero that impresses germs                  upon language rails, on the tree that simmers, showering bomb threats over THE LOST TONGUE. place hand to the other torso, place heart to the horse’s hide and speaking races over sisters.          never do the ties remember all their screens, or all their hiding limbs . . . wet on the chair, ‘woven stone’ — places the INCUBATED muscle on desiccated insects, droves of mango that never fell to the floor. a welcome accomplishment. SURFACE shrinking skin, the isthmus isn’t remembered for its canals. eggs & softened lizards — poured milk on the Wheel, red faces that play the memory of your silent chairs . . . some rain makes the wind full . . . blankets into stone

back 90 suns to a run through the ferns I remain the eclipse of each sound as I push through the soil to the icons that run no more. my stutters explode through the shade of the twilight as crows destroy the machine → robots drone in the infinite zero, where we dwell in the pull of the Sea. the moon shaves our brain onto the plate and layers the first person far before the book to form the semblance we share in the animals who dwell in the exterior layer of our souls beyond the skin. that is where suffering plants and holds its fractal flower as hope delivers its other linked body made of the sand and the wind. the flora and fauna and others of the earth, of each person extend their net of the mind to reduce the numerical coldness of the sound. but where do the multiple hearts plant themselves in the exterior organs and the bodies of the stones? and of time cut down to the green and the stop of the harvest where the singular falls, how does it start? and where does it go?

i fail in the retry of possible gaps for the middle of canyons in crumbling lights for the scarification of vinyl. it rides through the forest and throbs a small packet where parallel seams scratch a readable surface on the backs of the camels in mirages of separate planes to the bursting eclipse of pronounceable service, two spots on its forehead call out for the country of doubling masses on a highway that cuts into faces in line for the city every stream ties a knot for an opening under the sea i lose all my digits to the moon that will one day be bare to the parched piles of breathing in farms to the doorways that promise a morning on the accident prone to a murder of chance every mouse in the dust in the kitchen will harvest the cold in the sickness of scattering twigs in the answer of mirrors for the double that sings with the night by the prayer full of ashes under frozen cadavers that once were the hearts in the egg of a wound i disappear in the wrap-up for invisible letters that leave all the snow for the hunt to deliver migration on the mushroom fields full of returns under beaches in roads by a promise where the water turns into a home and the blame of the air will no longer wail for the spot in the cloud full of planets while a bubble reenters a womb for explosions in placards like the front of a bus crossing vines in a prairie that were traced on the skin of a goat i look at the picture of too many races for the blood of a horse that a bundle of sleeping 3 shorted connections for the change of electrical chairs under pools of announcements for the battling showers that tell all the stories of war to infants in sight of the corner of trading for the telephones buried in answers under barrooms and sawdust and piers where the songs of an isthmus circle the beacon where the moon cannot pull where a whisper moves sand off a stone i weigh every mote in my eye with the fingers of handshakes they calibrate walks like the wheels of a car they reflect in a wave like untying the knot of a bruise full of ice where once was a number where the count was eleven where equality lifts like the dough that incarcerates mud clots and showers for the vanishing thorn in a guide by the pillow softly omitted what the second hand sees under gears by the hand of a cripple for the ditch in a face that is fine i bury my head in the leaves that the buses were lost in that day when i looked for her here in the Arctic when the telephone poles were the marks of equators when the mornings at home could not write their own name when the shepherd was singing too many shields at the entrance of staring at stars in the basement with the light in the chest of what follows with a walking that pulls at two seals for the trouble in words in the empty in the on and off one why there have to be zeros to raise all the shores for piñatas to line themselves up in the snow under spreading the phase of recalling the crosshairs on the hive that the singing will never return when the breaking gives others a prompt to give air i radio frequencies meant to undress all the parrots in the knot that a hill on the head of the viewer can see without even a monkey to grow with a molecule’s power in a black hole instead of a screen in identity swimming to surface every outlook reframes on a break in circular lots by the parking spot full of directions where a jacket sinks into the roll of an orange in Fez around trains in the mountains that the pantomime echoes in the valley of shells that call out for an engine to answer when penalties cease in the skull of another score gone on the pavement with the sound of a bell that is broken to bear its first weight in the sand