20160521

Felino A. Soriano



Of this Momentum Song (forty-nine)

  Aurora, we again
 wrote purpose
   among what
               called
 toward us.  Said
                 of the
  implementation,

 Song wore our
    rhythms     wrote out
 each moment     each
     fathom of clock,
                   connect-
 ed, instruction—




__________
light, more so
 voice than
emblem
          to 
  eradicate spectral
childhood fear—
__________



     scribbled angles
  detangled by operating
      hands
            hands
   as motion
 removing 
          meaning (most),
  pulses interrupt
clarity of inconsistent
                     behavior—

     to end here
   isn’t the feasible 
       language of
 our mouth’s imaginative
                    solos,
  the construct too foreign
 to walk across that
    bridge’s foundational
  misleading... to open
                      is to
music our motives, our
  ways of linger-length
    meander, believed
 by the ancestors
leaving quotations
                   for us to
  decode and translate
 into the skin covering
    why we cannot
  stall or create inventive
           

 
             axiomatic 

suspension
  



Of this Momentum Song (nearly fifty)

    We stayed here to
   grab selected impulses,
      as to search for
   what hits or zaps us,
                      privilege in
    what already knew us,
  our hands, our bones
     that carry us.  Though
   hit, pain did not subsequent
       with realization.  Nor
                          did the
    zap encase well-being:
   more a dancing
     declaration our
       bodies ran into.  With
  what says us, motive
   is never more than
     what the mouth
                    plagiarizes:
   found in flame, we
  warm to enclose us,
    enclosed is what
   was us, in the
      knowledge Meaning
                       meant
alone within the
 dialogue of shadow 
and song, certain
                and
     deliberate.  




Of this Momentum Song (fifty)

   To breathe we share
  what music does, what
      it does then doesn’t
    unravels miracles
                      as
 with mystery
  toward the tongue’s
unlatching
         legacy.  To
 be born is to 
  dance in the naked
embrace, the warmth
                    the nuanced
  emotions of
 echoes     erasing
    what silence
  does     in birth
     then the twirl
   impasto of dream,
 as it is.  
        



__________
Low-light can
 feed our fear
in the absence
  of it,
     enough.  To say
  enough is to
    find the body’s
       edge     enough of it
is said when
 bone is the altar
near what marries
   in freedom, in
 found architectural
                   meaning
__________




we became what 
 came before us,
what handed
   us this mirror
                engaging
 hand and the 
     numbers
              we
  age into
retrofitted

         


          prophecy 

              
          

Of this Momentum Song (fifty-one)

          Bells we heard
    or horns believed
       to be what rang
                       toward us.
     We arrowed to 
   configure straight
       line movement
                     with
   a whirl in the voice
 enough of motive
     to meander
   within us.
             We’re
 becoming now how
   night shaves
 light’s angular
               notions,
  a wound with need
 we heard, we heard
   as night shaded-in
  what eyes became,
                  we heard
 because we stopped
  to rest our hands,
our shaping music
   rotating tiredness,
 tame and undisclosed
                      excite-
  ment.  We praise
 what intrigues us,
   us, the sometimes
 so experimentation
                     if/when
  rest dislocates
   one from one or
 a singular reason to
    gradate, gentler
                  arises
 from the mind of
  Trepidation’s
obstacles.   Our
     path we’ve
 burned through,
history, cities
 behind us...
constellations rotate
  finding what needs
                     us




   finding what mentions
 us
   in the whole of
needing where
              we’re

       going




Of this Momentum Song (fifty-two)

             Never done
                      nor never
               stilled by harm
                             or
           intentional
          manipulation.  Song
            it is, Song says
         




__________
   dead in the dream,
          dead as in the
 fade of Night’s
                 eventual
      absence — dead
   as the wing’s 
                broken
        miracle, warming
      into boil     the 
         body no longer
                      used— 
           used in the 
       discard of broken
         freedom opportunity.
     

        Potential, we adhere
             to focus     focus
           to help and harness
                 what speaks to us.
   Then, what moves then
  molds us     what mentions
        by name the
                     moment-
     um of hands swaying
    with horn     with/by
        habit of hearing
            Pathos’ clarity
      of 
        intention.
__________




   Song in the mirror
  holding what listens
                      what
     rhythms

  beneath an entrance
                    of

   devoted
    

                                     recompilation 



Felino A. Soriano directs supported living and independent living programs providing supports to adults with developmental disabilities. His poetry appears in CHURN, BlazeVOX, 3:AM Magazine, The National Poetry Review, otoliths, Small Po[r]tions, and elsewhere. His books of poetry include sparse anatomies of single antecedents (2015), Of isolated limning (2014), Pathos|particular invocation (2013), Of language|s| the rain speaks (2012), and Intentions of Aligned Demarcations (2011). He publishes the online journal Of/with. Visit felinoasoriano.info for more information.
 
 
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