Sunday, January 31, 2016

Felino Soriano, A selection from Fragmented Olio, from Consequences

                                    Liberation of the Flatliners, image by Daniel Y. Harris 

A selection from Fragmented Olio

from Consequences

The way moths
                                unravel shape
            bend to
     unfasten flowers onto the


                       Here there are
                       no wings     no
earth-sized tunnel
                                     only a
moment to plant voice
           onto the grass’ manicured
presentation.  The way the moon whispers
light onto the flesh of the destructed
          left in the memory of the
mirror’s leaving              you
exhale prose, softened from sadness and
the burden of the absence.  You want
to leave but this stillness has iron
you are safe                                  no one else is present
and the
               to this ground is
a mirror holding you—
the mother’s ache drawn
into the trust of your shadow.

Formed less

You hold the form
of light and write
how the warmth
feeds you.  Yesterday
the rain climbed
your spine, the way
the throat opens
to invent closeness with
sustained revelation.  You
cannot find balance, and what
is seen is only distance
that clarifies the body’s
misinformed alignment.  You
open the mouth to ignite
the current senses, and awaken
to what seems darkened—
these memories are gardens
razed by the rudiments of
discarded light, rain.  

The up of undulation

Absent of body the
face of this wave.  The
spray the splaying of
white of blue of alternate
notes of the jazz of morning.

After entering

This flame you hold is
more than light,
warmth.  You write
your name in this dirt
to watch wind use
softened versions of
vanish, hands.  People
cross your voice: you
spell faith into the
circumference of this
space, silence—

they do not bend to hear
you, your tongue as
arrow is too straight
to welcome mishearing.  You
recall that here is where
the death occurred: it
will always occur: everywhere
mourn is the color worn
of thorn against ribs
and pulses where the center
hasn’t a name to preserve
blood and vision.

To awaken to this

     signs lead you
into distance and
varied landscapes—

     the voice of the
     calls to you
from a separate room of your breathing.
This is the shelter to
cover both of your tongues.  Call it

home and the space will
    welcome you, by force
but not violence.  It is natural.  And this
is the shelter for both of your
bodies.  Wander, it is good
for the mouth to open
into the promise of searching.  Listen, the
most musical part of your
language is when praise
lifts the angle of your
throat, and the mouth you
have will only survive if
it follows the philosophy of
stone: become still.

Questions into a trio of portraits

This circle you draw

an earth                  without

Where are the bodies?         Again: there

is no violence

here.                                 The language?     Violence is the corporeal

of the hateful tongue.  


Your breath, the suspire, the
painful registry of sound.  An
agony of thrust     up
from the burn of spark
on the tongue.


You will hear of death, a yesterday
of common structure.  This distance
is already a history, the prose of
it, the face of it, an appositional
mirror of two-headed homes.


In your birth
was the cry one of fear, of cold?  To hear
you is to leap
over the ghost
paused to meet the body of Memory’s
violence.  Then, what is forgotten, but the force            just follow the voice.