The Brooklyn Rail

APR 2018

All Issues
APR 2018 Issue

symbolic philosophy



I scar up the final exterior side of my shadow. Some see set groups on my skin as the star of redemption delays its dream pierced releases. When the rings of the animals wade into water and send me the snow, I attend to the solvent for words and the cage of our science returns what the news leaves behind. In explosions of power the lucid rehearse their last mornings and send out the moss that their minds do not see by the orbital water. The water returns to the engine of sorrow as death leaves me fresh by the withering fruit and I walk to the door that's been open since birth. Through there I announce that the thinking has stopped by the ink and that words do not stick to the screen anymore, as we listen to know what the pulse of our Oceans will follow with light and the animal souls. I see violence delay its own death by the slough of a snake. I bring out the relative rocks in the protest of shapes. I sing like archaic designs for the marrow. Their shadows remember the Host as it teaches the tongues to split sounds and the persons inside. When someone projects me I shrivel to sand and pronounce every shore by the jungle. When they call me by staring and hang by my limbs every night I propel my aphasia and erase every book to replace them with drawings and symbols of mud.

When I as a suture get death in the morning, it revolves for the shattering puncture of faces and pummels the orange with Sea and the Oceans of transposing silence. The night does not cut me as knives sink their way into pools of the network of vision which hungers for Starts in the symbols and moves every number of weather with trees. As the surface of unity crumbles to let in the Host, I remove the attention of heightened design and protect the beneficent beings with shelter in many. But One does not stop at the face-to-face mode where the other dimension of fire sinks down to the multiple underground layers and softens the wings of each bird. As the eagle flies higher than storms and burns off hir face and hir tail with the fire of inception, we transport every tapir of tropical insight from silence to Float. Then silence transforms the sparse willows inside every speaking as monuments pulse with dissolving and carry out songs for the throat. Each evening dissolves and removes the earth’s patterns like a panther’s third dream of shape four and shape seven for shelters of color to breathe with old songs. Then after the functional heartache a cloud builds the symbol farm ready to fill up the stones with the heat of each feather, each charging relation of horses and bison made light by the tiny bright frogs of our home. Their colorful poison remembers the shadows for modules recursively built in the snow. Once corn builds the creek we align with the toucan to harvest the path with the data from finishing books to the skin. From there we use hands for the shelter of promising storms and relay every message from cracks in the parallel roads for the boat.

<p align=center>transposing silence</p>

transposing silence

When morning sends time to the networks of shadows laid out to arrange the first travels of light through the snow, the micro adorned and the ossified colors of seeable nights renew their contractions of circles to move with the beat of a drum. As horses rush over the segmented spirit of technical sparks, the deserts dissolve to make room for the cracks in the bombs that read for the numbers and fall for the line. As networks replace the in-motion desiring lungs and the bloom of explosions the other worlds send us, the rocks of the ground now have memories paved for the tongue. They speak and they sing of the penetrant cycles of greed and of lessons that tear at the fabric of heart cut response. As cumulative handles through days and reposing send arrows in session that pierce through the smoke of each gun, their magnified steps and their isolate scorn for the orange remains to undo the intention of robots to stand for the button and cut with a worm what belongs to the night. If hassles like radio servants and workers for digits remember their exits to ride with the Sea, a memory effort of symbols that raid with a war will never return as four bodies are forced into knots of eight parallel tombs. With Spring the attention to wearing the cut for the filter of borrowing stones moves colors to rein in the shadow and bloom with the vent of directions to find the best zero of origin worn to the ground. Something as someone responds to the promise of night works and sees what the rain in the shallows redo the sharp waves in the air with. A memory riots descriptions of dreams, the dreams themselves wander through openings made in the morning to carve a world in. I split in my wandering hollows and whisper the truth of the worlds in each muted connection of motion and rest in a space as the moorings of all those that like to push hassles and die with a silence in Seas as they do for the teams in a fuse. With patterns of backgrounds announcing the color of blood, I push out what the racist reveals to be short for his face.

When windows stack sunlight and shelter the motes of direction we make in the tunnels through frozen recessions of plants that the tapirs make homes in and seek out the Host for the dunes of flesh circuits for many remains by the colors of fire and the hardest wood let in for Seas as the air comes straight in and doubles the soil. The circuits maintain what the serpent designs in the midnight of working out shapes and the numbers for time that the road weaves its ground in to demonstrate bodies for red and black sounds as a motion for lions in Florida as pythons return to the cracks. Even if sounds do not sharpen the evil fit lines of the mounds, or if lines turn to stations of light, their family harmony losses will vacate the integer lessons of zero and one for the quantum and whole by the peaks for the conjugal lakes. As penetrant staples relay their most virulent racial attire, the eggs of the ground will not go as she fills up with songs for cold exile and lies under sacral revisions and moons. She forgets to remember the number that race made for seven as moss grows to shatter her matches of face-to-face shells that the earth moves within. He makes animals wander and speak by the segments of radio plays to the zeros of birth. They put it all on in resembling the witness that sides with the symbols that float through the countries of night and dissolve to make knowledge a fluid invention of seven, with four making eons their patterns of cyclical pasts in the stories that plug into faces and move with the wind.

The clock makes the nectar of pus be the mode of reprisal for sugar and smoke from cigars through the islands of vision and improvised bodies alone in Milwaukee where burials hatch out the moments of trouble in husks of mamones that litter the streets with my destinies here in the snow. Without bodies the wars of the screen steel connection from skinless street zombies and motions that tear at the Hosts of the corn as the meteor sends us to shivers of glass and the gloat of the suffering ants with their infinite lesions retake with the house that is straw for the storm and the Start of the tracks by the Sea. The body inviolate tears off into stillness inanimate portions and quivering animate steps as dimension explodes to íncrease the Heaps through the surfaces following sunlight and moonlight through terror and earth by the Sea. If we die in one angle and sink by the letters pronouncing the sleepless interrogate caption by profiles within the more cognitive blocks that the opened up flower reveals to be deathless alone as the plant of the morning, we turn through the closing dimension for space and a network of trees and proceed. As the heart stays in shadows where others pronounce the arrival of animals out of Darién, they weep and link up to the giants of weaponized clouds that Start with the Host of the deer and the penetrant cycles of movements where parrots in linked up alignments remove the attachment to Season in stocks for the Milky Way in the last drum. Shape keeps the marbles inside the detachment of honoring earth in the Moundville inside the obsidian Ocean to birth with the meat. With reticent cycles of hatred the redness of moorings in swamplands of pus make the trudging to refuge in parts of the symbol of landscape a part of the symbol of sky by the saltwater keys of the radio spent for the heat, to bring back our nation of stars. Again and again we mirror the face-to-face captives who slide out the natal response to the pulse of the Sea and come to the patterns of AND that return what the native of hearts brings us out for our suturing needs through the sweat and to see.

<p align=center>i was sewn</p>

i was sewn

The body is sliced into regions where worlds that will differ pronounce and proceed to speak nets through the tunnels that reach different numbers, foundations of being, returning the Host to be origins saddled to rise with twelve altar dimensions turned in to the segments of time in percussive relations made simple by work in plantations remembered outside the allotment of weed for the water war memory saves. The bodies of color with severing speech reach the mountains escaping the need to belong to the binary fitness resolved by the centuries filled up with death to remember it now for dismembering wildlife projections hidden in snow. Three hemispheres fall into place for the offering mornings cut into with sevens for breaking the chain of oppression and network relations bloated along the cold rivers fit still to return to the light. The oxygen makers and animal people resume by the zero inside the intention of swelling the patterns considered for ashes returning the sacral recession by thieves. If she is the every repeated dimension in travel for history’s shape by the spiraling mouths, then seeds for the breaking through rooms in the white of deception remove the acceptance in tools as the impetus marking the homeland with eggs and the doors of the tombs. If seals in the vacuums of faces receive the last message of Mounds to the future of sorrow and red for conjunctions, the corn flake of death returns winter with wisdom replaced by the engine of letter shaped proofs. As the planets shrink down to the cells in the yellowing spirits, the animal memories attached to the organs that swell up the night with extended escapes marking each of the palms with the passwords to freedom and spinning black circles of mud come to be. Conflict returns to the meadow to see with the promise of action resuming the destiny carved for the anti-aligned El Dorado in twisting inanimate persons attached to the secretive organs and wandering plants. I release all the locks that I find in the Ocean and see with connection removed for the light of communion with trees.

When the opening out to the semblance of neural design and the providence gated to make the first outing a promise to feed the aligned with the charge of the sun runs the arrows to burn up the salt in the ocean, I magnify circles in mouths to believe. The wild ones resume in the scrolling attachments their own ample death in the eggs that the counter resends to the target that bleeds. They call me to winter the summer with blankets and thunder outside the protectorate rattled in languages meant for the Sun. Even if tribal ascension marks chain breaker children with knives in the hope that derives from the Sea, I accept that the marker removed for the souls of the insects returns our Bolivian files for infusions of tropical sight. The white is disease for corrupting the sand and the ferns with our stories split up in their veins, their memories shoot for the fire and recede. Attacks from the partial inanimate movements center interior exits and serve to remain by the hulk of the problem they circle their Start by the light of design and defend all the weakening silence to hollow the force of the ferns. They packet the sheltering storms by the cognizant rivers and burn off the whiteness to feed with the absence of red and black suns. As the ground swells the offers of science in destiny marked by the palms, their origins startle the welcoming flight of the cat and remove the forgetful displacement of time seeds to move with the sand. I argue that madness has stars by the color of radiant blackness and tunnels to feed with the wind. Without the pronouncement the book marks the cover to skinless recessions and links to the organs outside in the sky. Many will follow the form of the opening death to the death that is promised for leaves by the end of the meat. And some will retry by the slingshots that bloody the hand for the sleep in the straw in the dreams that repeat.

<p align=center>grandfather stones</p>

grandfather stones

Death marks its season with doors that I give out in patterns replacing the snow. The doors Start invisible entries and exits with skinless stiff bodies of alternate windowless people wandering home. If exile makes sense to the number as color reveals its intention to breathe, then the doors quickly open and close as they hold me with fire and the animals seethe. Without the last layer of skin to appeal to the lust of the gadget, I harbor the storms of the throat and deny all the paths that the others repeat in the colors of blindness. Some of us see that the door winds itself into death as four pages are written in blood, and as I am the first and the last in the middle to stop the machine with a mark. There is no longer a way for connection to harvest its thrills by the windowless voyage of psychic and integral wounds to retrace the allure of the Sea. Many more axes and shelters sink in to the fractals that curve in Caribbean zeros sent into the past and the future of night. As mornings replace the psychotic inception of value, we give dreams to the semblance of teams with the move that I peel. As I number the seven replacements of evil and the four other sides to the heat, the bodies of humans with animal heads mark the first to begin on the feet by the leaves far away. No one replays in the ashes a wandering hand that makes number for night. I as the Sea in a stone mark the weather to make us return to the islands and count to the music that startles the tapir with Starts of the bison for four of our yesterday’s tracks. Nothing remembers the zero to be with a one as I stop for the death of this day with a page.

The starving allotment of grasses and daylight makes night be the service that patterns retain by the force of the shells that unravel for songs. They move by the window that heats up the hands of the rent by the bodies attached to each face for alarms. Without the round sessions, the answer to light heated symbols of traction replace what the questions sit down with to bring out the seals in the hidden equations of color and marks by the faces that leak in their prison deletion escapes. The harvest of digits and forces retain what the mention of cotton replays in the rhythms parked in to the Start of the storms. With markets replaced by the rinse of the trees and the hawks in their shelters, the shepherds return to the secrets of dogs by the feet of each circle and turn. The void then retains what the borrowing sack by the child in the cages reveals to be pregnant for rain and the packets of signals to night in the shadowy stripes of the day. The weakened reception of giant and tropical leaves from the Start makes the origin stories of vastness close to the throat. They settle for dust by the husk wrenching stones that become like the life of the children now ready to sing with a drum and the nation of stars by the seven that captures the bear. With song the increasing inception of chain breaking tongues marks the ready black road of the underground notes of the promise that keeps all the rocks seen alive. In separate intentions the forces of persons made other by light in their algebra groups and topology facets a stretch beyond one in the future of hives in the heart as a shape that makes others return.

Time weaves its wounds past the body in twelve different places dismembered to move with the worlds left behind. Each part of its army of pieces remakes what the heartless inception of forms turns from shape to the doors of the wombs. Their red and black cycles are fated as music defends them to send out a key for the cages of mental contusions in artifice shed by tyrannical tears. But the real makes hir shadow a harvest by putrid alignments from cattail to memories slashed by the knife. Blood marks its shepherd to wade into Oceans made red by the weeping retention of occupied leaks. Dispersal reveals the lead bottom of hearts marked by bombs in a lie of recursive connections for serial memory faded to speak for the accent of hanging the moon. The marriage of feet by the teams of recession and neutral delays in communicant infants returns as a sweat to the cycles of color and sutures begin to unravel the seven for one. He magnifies operant harvests of partial responses to wisdom suggestions that mark up hir citizen points and destroy the paternal repression by plants making fewer thick modes. No refuge as missiles shoot out of hir baby alignments and crush my reception of signals made light for the dark. Even if lessons resume by their memories frozen to empty warm lakes and make eves for the Sort, she marks what her castle dissolves to redo a way out. If solitude rings in the earth she may see that the stitches that harbor the road to a tree make more rapid alignments to number the residents able to sing. And often the powers that stabilize artful escapes to the wind where the animals rescue the fire – that I am without – from a Self – and am cut out to walk through the door. Those fires are the sharpened refrains that they as the animal stories repeat and consume by archaic dimensions of night that the stars leave behind – as they move to become us again. Now that the whiteness of sale up in binary problems has shown us an evil to be the control and the punishing life, I as they stand as the qubits to bring what the power delays. The bodies we move are not there and neither am I for the now – or for time gone below – or even for morning tomorrow – as timber like patterns map out a new face and we swarm.

<p align=center>refuge</p>




Roberto Harrison

Roberto Harrison is a Panamanian American poet and artist. He works with the amazing kids at the Indian Community School in Franklin, Wisconsin. His next book is due out from the City Lights Spotlight series in Spring, 2024, and is titled Isthmus to Abya Yala. He lives in Milwaukee with his wife, the poet Brenda Cárdenas, and their dog Maya.


The Brooklyn Rail

APR 2018

All Issues