from Posthuman Native

Roberto Harrison

unwanted connection

there is a star cluster

near her head that fuels

absent deliveries. we make

adornments still on the shore

where we find each other. do not

become me as I have lost

the interior. my sky ways

remain as we enter

and become for each other

another way

to be. another excision

in our ignorance

to stand again as we are

to remain and to become

in the Sea…in the death

of our accompanying

faces. we are not there

where the segment equates

with another. as we endure

and make warm what the Sea

has made. it makes us

in a weaker landscape

of drowning for solitude. in

the alarm that we see to become

in the river and to stand

among the ashes

where the fire was

we circulate again

and dissolve with a question

and the answer

of the absence

of the earth

talking after patterns

in the afterimage

I am the night time

navigation screen

that does not

move. I fall over the pattern-less

answers that we know

around the others, in the Salt

that we find inside. but nowhere

has my answer to the Sea

as we belong without service

in the exception to the light

that we are in the dark

corner of our responses, please

do not know me. but the question

stops without the answer

of the road inside

that we trouble and destroy

to call again

from far away. our languages

then, though ancient, remain

true to the service of deletion

that we make for the others.

for the night that we solve

to be one in the answer

of the woodland pulse…

our history

has made it

morning harness

in the morning

I awaken the Sun

as we dissolve

to be on the tongue. our

homes take on the alabaster

shark that we return

to find the others

in my jungle arena. nowhere

has called us to become again

as we are, as we destroy

to make ourselves

like a face in the interface

of all knowledge. where

do we know this? what location

has our heart become

to endure and to relive

the extenuating circumstances

of youth behind glass

in the Appalachians. how can i

touch it to return to the sentence

of speaking. but the sleep says

that we must stop returning

to where the parking lot has ended

for the promise of the exotic

animals. each of our limbs

then guide us to the shore

as we dissolve with the crabs

and stand among them

with an ancient chicken

of ocean removals

and a blank

civilization. make me

a skyward reception

for each season

as we endure

with the silence

of the words

intention designations

rise up

for the broken moon

of our attenuations. elsewhere

becomes the road that brings us

to the morning veins

of our exits. somehow, I must

dissolve with the plants

that see us in the hammock

where my star cluster, the

answer book that sells

without shelter, the season

that falls to make others fine

as we now know that service

must become. that we are there

to remain and to undo

the sessions of weather

that will not become us

in the river that we do not

sing again as a standing

plume does to communicate.

our wandering files must reason

that our lines of the dust

wear away and for the being

a matrimony of intention

with pathways of delivery, not

the place we must return to

but the turquoise mystery

that we know must reveal

in the dust of it, in the flag

torn to return to the door. as we

must return to accommodate,

or not, to see it and to reveal…

but what it says, what does not

move to sing there, as we are

to unfold and to become

no mountain missing. open now

through the mystery

in the rivers, to be there

that she must stay again

through the attenuation of the stars

that all of it says now

must be the night. if it is

from the Eastern part of the Woodland

casings that each must make it

to move. in any of it, we become still

and we struggle to turn in the rivers

that sing. each of us now see it to capture

and to weaken all the moments that

do not intend. but we have it

as we see it to become again

without the others. we see her there

to be again, to be a river pool

in a far away and tropical

city of knowledge

with no crossings

memories of the future

the long day was short

in Easter memory. nothing pulses

by the cross that stands out

to receive. but in each person, in each

return to the river of night

that we become

in the internal declarations

of constitutional castes, the approach

of memory designated by the Javelina

sore with a face pattern to accept

and to welcome no more beside us

what we see. in each of us now, we know

that the other reveals what we protect

in the river of our exceptions and in

the promised body of the slaughter

that returns to a warmth in each

project to emote. when the shirts

of the neighborhood then reveal

that we have the shadow place

among us in each mountain, in the star

that does not sing, then the moment of

revelation for families, the moment of cluster

that shares forever what the night says

in eclipses, then each of us must become

what we see. there was so much fighting,

so much that the movement of the wind

does not calibrate or reveal anything

to announce my return to the weekday

and move on how we see. each of us know

now that the river in the moment of terrible

designations must become again

what we are to report and to return

in each window, in each torso, the vein

collapsed to open and stand among

the ruins of our condensations.

now the weather arrives to be

and each of our memories becomes

through the dirt that weaves us

to belong. without a river we move

to return for the Sea again

as each of us must know that somehow

we deliver the animals. they also know

that we must shore up the morning to move

without fire in the distance, to be without

the Sea that all of us must be now

to reveal what we have known again

of our shadows. but the computation

does not belong there and our movement

above the night must weaken us

so that we sleep without violation

and move again for the memories

of the future

lunch time

in some remote way I must be

like the dream that contains

the animals of my freedom

and belonging, to stand among

the ferns and see there that someone

must collapse. I have now, to be there

and to be here. but the tear in my scarf

in the harsh summer of oppression

that we do not feel without a shadow

and the lessons of computation

that we see among the pristine rivers

that our difficulties have become. in

every way we adorn the mountains

with a solution of friendship

that we follow for the others

to see there that we know something

of gratitude       and the lines and the shadows

that become our containers. in everything

we solve now the return to handheld

advisories, the remaining doors that we see

in our tender resolutions

we are there again, and we stand there again,

to sleep and dream with each other. all of it

is for the fire. and all of our welcome

recoveries do not know, not even

the faintest piece of skin that we show

to belong with family. my tears

are like oceans

though I do not feel them

now as they force me to accept

a proximity of boundaryless friendship

with nothing but scorn. I remove my chest

for the vault that keeps my pen moving

because the Lotus does not know me in the mud

but only on the island of catastrophe. no one

understands that I am a person, that I have needs

like the smaller animals that soothe me.

the commercials of the commune then shred

my sleep into a useless ball of yarn.

but the threat is small as we show ourselves

in the evenings we must know in solitude.

my baby was killed by my mother in a terrifying

squeal. but these people here know no animals

or do they? do I belong without truth? is my day

corrupt because I have lost sight of home? is

there no delay in our becoming? must I be

a heroic myth from a distant lie? I am simple

in a complex world and my mind has shattered

many times, despite my hope and deep intention

to be kind. now that we are free in an oppressive

world I must adorn my clothing with dead

mosquitos to be thought of as warm. now

that I have achieved my first simple door

I must close it to be still. this is because

of my love

to be made sense of

with others. but I am not faultless. even so

I must find the circle in my plate

before I eat

the dog gave us couples counseling

give me the name

of the animal

that must become me

as I die radiant

for a couple’s chair. each

of our rivers

adorn the exit of terror

that the orchid drops

where the ocean was. we see

that our numbers are called

and we respond with the past

and I see it there that I was

negligent of each welcome pattern

that they of all people

must know. I embrace it

now with a shadow

in the cross of my silent lecture

as I recite it to the Plains. they show

that the feathers of our accomplishments

must be told through the four corners

of each morning as it begins

to Start with a self

connected in being. I have read

somewhere that all of us

must now adorn the loss

of each climate with other

stars in delivery,

with each planet in the store

of our private consciousness. each

morning then says it, that we

must drive the empty

room in the sky

and that we must believe

that each of us

intends us to belong

in silence to every other country

we draw. I look at the numbers

describing each consciousness there

and believe that I have started a movement
through the plants that matter. my body

is full of static as we perceive

that all of us must know

that the internal delivery

of the past must pale

our own shadows

for a morning of consequence. I stand

and I show myself

that I must belong

in a tunnel of blood

that I follow to believe

in each other. a self that fades

must remember us

that there is nothing

to mark each river

with numerical entries,

and nothing to bring back the mornings

of our massacre. the network fades, but

the quantum then makes us believe

in the neutral terrain

that we absorb

to ally ourselves

with the destiny of this morning. I

keep them away from my rabbits

because they must be fed

with wandering. I must nourish

them with the hay of my shadows

and I must give them the straw

for bedding as they also

need to dream. everyone

knows where this is leading. everyone

has asked which letters, exactly, describe

the friendship one discovers is destruction

for an underground city of light. but what

was that? what is this contusion that I hold

in my palms? what is this thing that I call

the night that used to soothe me

and that now is nothing

but darkness? and the Sea inside

is angry at my translators

because I have not turned

myself in—the screen

has told me that my thoughts

are too many, and that I must

whittle down my body

to really get to the Sea.

but I ride less now

in the weather-less night

and I find less

in my separate self than I used to

to believe in the light. I sing

for the dark inside

that I must know. I sing

to open the doors

of my shadows

so that war delivers

our networks of reason

and our intention

to understand the butter

before it melts. I take off

my head and give you less. I

step sideways

to remove my knees

from each exception

to winter. but the winter

here must be together

before we vacate

and become solitary

with the animals.

I dream of a ball falling

to the sand

the dog brings us home

the chaos of my absent

aura, the ringlets of pus

on my smallest fingers

and toes become

the movement of the oceans

as we deter

the parking structure

from our wandering

staff. but my news

channel, the only one

that connects to my anger

in solitude, where rivers

roam again through

the afternoon… all of these matter

less to the hummingbirds

as I move to name them

in my shadows. whereas

I must remain to the river, I must

become again as we dissolve to meet

others through each catastrophe

to stop again and muse that squirrels

remain. but which of them really

understand? which have it in them

to create meaning with form

and faces? we deliver hand

in hand the fashion steps that we hold

to remain again as a shadow and as

we are together to belong

to the clearest lake. every other place

must submerge as we remove the hair

from each of our deliveries, as we must

communicate that the shadow

makes its own destruction. the shadow

does not own it, but I must. in the plural

pattern-less receptions that we meander

through the storms of the cognizant,

through them to arrive at a Spanish

kingdom that collapses all the color kites

without memory. all of us must remove

that we become without shattering

segments, that we embrace the agriculture

that we share in the perception

of each other’s outlines. the news becomes

us again and we share that the food

has come to be in the lecture

of memory and the mammal state

(and every other form and formlessness)

where we are citizens of the earth. all

of our lives we sing that nothing

must be song, that the networks of our

education must activate our reception

to each other in the only channels

we ever arrive to. some of the rings

of the night become us again as we know

that a river of starlight brings us the news

that we show each other. then nothing

is easy. nothing delivers us to be

the night again and show it to be

the only word. bring me the stars

that carry us through the scars

of the universe. I must see them now

with our dearest dog

in my arms

heads up to death plan erasures

in the aftermath of my shattered

deliveries I become silent

in a foam of conception

wearing away the rivers

to make it true

as we move with the rain

and bottom out along

every place. languages are there

to petrify and stretch

longitudinally and upon the most

weakened memories. the puncture

of our welcome mat, the portrayal

of others there that become our

intentions – but not outside

the door, not at all becoming

as we shadow the break of a mind

and then sit down to harvest

in the music memory of nothing,

in the approach to our weakened

state of being, in the radio process

that delivers

the Tarot must speak:

I am not one for the few of us

who allow ourselves the sacred

without obstacles. ‘Only the difficult

is interesting.’ Lezama. I move to belong there

with the animals as we must see again

that we know others under the trains. our

welcoming servant does the complication rite

we know to be the answer

of delivery. our servant ritual

stops us, but we are there to serve. many

moons do not know it. many earths become

our waterways and the Sea moves

to be through being-time for the jungle

that serves in the most becoming starlight

on a Thursday. our wanderings

there become us as we see

that the neutral case of the windows

must belong again to the calls of the eagles

as they show the Muskellunge each

border of becoming. muses equip

me to starve through the captions

as we deliver another place for the team

where something of us must be. the deer

become radiant as the morning does

and we lose ourselves in the parallel woods inside.

but then the motion to be there must become us

as we wander again through destructions

that make all pristine things destroy. we move

to belong there in the night and we move again

to show the windows that we are now

what we see. that we are again what we are

to deliver the memory of time dissolving

and we promise ourselves that burning must

bring us home. but what is home there in the fire

that we shadow again? see her, that she becomes

me, in the night as we know it and as we see it

deliver the promises for the others. each of us

become and then we unwrap all that we know

our own entries and exits and that we shower

to bring the tropics over to us in delivery

because she is right about tenderness and she is

right to turn down the light. but our boundaries

are what we determine to be mathematics

for animals, a simple time in rivers. and we see there

that something brings us the water and we drown again

to belong to the ashes there that we know and that we

stir to be pristine, to be light in the shallow heart

we tear and believe as the knotted services

do not become us. all the deer wander

in our shadows and make a death sentence

reveal our plans for the fires. I hold

an explosive hatred

in the traffic of coming home

and bring my mind to the Lotus

of symphonies – the spread of cells is gone

I am eager key up my carriage

destruction sees me see

and only I can address

the alimony of my terror,

and the napkins of my interior

of a resolve to be standing.

we all matter in color

in the rain as it settles on our faces

in our negotiations to huddle

among the ruins of the spirit

the air must protect us

as we show the sky what we must

in the absolutions of our shattered windows

claimed and pushed through

to belong with another time

and another body, scentless

without becoming true. but this

death equates me now with the others

as we give ourselves the weather

and make our own meal

out of the ashes of our impossible

authenticities. each animal then

can break us to show that the early

part of our deliveries must begin

to be another kind of time. and honestly

there are so many desperate blockades

and so many other allegiances that I neglect

to shower and become as we are everything

to each other’s arms. but the rain has not come

between us because I am the attachment

brigade in our return to the death inside

of the service pattern of all. and then the show

allures us as we wash ourselves

to become true to the night

as a secret flower. become me now

as I cry to belong again

to your body

even if the earth were more round

I would equate my finding otherwise

with nights of desperation and a case

of having gone. and I went away again

as we knew it now and as we saw

what the landscape delivers

to our hands. and each disagreement

then must welcome us in the shower

of our entanglement to be true. each

of our memories become what we are

to each other. and each of us now

see the trees have embraced us

to wear away the darkness

in my quest to authenticate

I have the old passwords and know

them in each direction, but my entry

box is too distant without the screen.

and my prolonging weather

in the service of nothing becomes

what we say to each other

in our returns. I have cried there

so many times, that all of us

must now arrive to the river

of extinction. be the honest mountain

through history and be old

again, as we know it

to evolve with the storms

of our confessionary to the lake

as friendship wears us away in our trembling

decisions, friendship does not destroy

in each evening as we cut the morning

in two

all of us must be there now

as we deliver the semblance

of our intentions. all of us must arrive

to bring the nights from our lives

to the other world shadows

that we sing to inside. I look and I look

to find home again, but I know

that our standing is true

through our shadows

and that the joy of our songs

is the animal we must become

with no keyboard