Thursday, July 28, 2016

Felino A. Soriano, Excerpts from "Of this Momentum Song"


La Vitesse de la Lumière, image by Daniel Y. Harris 


Excerpts from Of this Momentum Song


Of this Momentum Song (nearly sixty-eight)

                     Honored, we
    resemble
             what
         the wing
      read into
               the
  wind’s verbal
 harmony, an
    appreciation
   of embrace in
      the physical
 adaptation of spirit-
                  ual
  meaning—
   unending praise
from the tongue
     of opened
    dialogue.  We
 do not flail.  Flail
  is Impatience
      indicating the
   mouth is opened,
                 predicting
     rage from the hungry
 need to
        sustain with an
            hour’s blend
  of exact measurements,
 sustained intuition.


Of this Momentum Song (sixty-eight)

    Premised rhythm.
  Paused.  Pulsed in/of
      what mentions balance
                     in mult-
   iple occurrences.  This
     is the word of longevity,
                          interior
 facts fixate on future,
  focal mentioning
onto hope and what
   holds our
            tomorrows stilled. 
      Inward, we update
    what darkness is, outlining
         hope in the hearsay
     of devoted, golden clarity.  Thrust
  from youth     acclimated
   burst of what these
                        hands
     ignite, within.  Warmth.
    Pure breaths are
      what uplift
              beneath
   Wing and what
     splays across
  our active intuitions.


________
   Each seventh day—
  as it seems—
      an avalanche
                   of ideas
  motivates what it is
                      or,
        how it is
    we begin this specified
  day of historical, hallowed
       rest.  We do not
    don the halos of
  associated relief to delineate
      Day from Sextuplet’s
             aggregated symphonies.
    We rest,
          we find
       what rested while
  we didn’t. 
__________



                                      Serenade, I/you.  You/then I
                                   listen with intent to invent—

                                            the miracles oscillate, we
                                        kaleidoscope the 360 degree fathoms—
                                                                          then move—
      hearing toward
                       what’s
   coming



Of this Momentum Song (sixty-nine)
                          _______________
                           To dwell is to garden.
                                                           
                                                            Martin Heidegger

            Quiet, this ceiling.  Crow-
         full,     scorched sky.  Of stoic wings.
               Still.  Still, I cannot hear
          exterior to this gaze.  Ballet.
           Mirrored fascination—
                                  or, reciprocated
                    curiosity, the
                 developed qualitative
                   data.  Personal.  Personal, what
                                        these
              preferences mean.  Solid
            faith finds what it is we
                search toward.  To go
          but where is
                    the dual
             language
                      reconsidering
           the body and what
        portends the legend
                of its moving.  Much
          occurs within
                                                   what rolls into
                                                  our going  ;  our staying
                                                      is never what imposes
                                                                            or
                                                           improvises in
                                                         variant species,
                                                               language.  Of
                                                             garden it is
                                                                  what we like.  Scent.
                                                          Scent, such as with
                                                            April’s pastel
    pulling tone onto cold
   of what precedes.  Music
      is what is.  Remember
         the version
                     of
    silence resembling
  a lullaby’s inverted
     language?  We missed
      light only long
   enough to rest
               upon
        what it is
  improving tomorrow’s
 future
  
      

—Felino A. Soriano



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