Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Felino Soriano

Within The Ear

The reading we must do. Of the
certain things and important too,
the listening, for the tongue
paths with the architect separate
from the buds, intellect, a different
taste, sporadic with spatial identity
though purpose toward the momentous.
Canopied below, safe, below
á la mode occurrences, music swirls within
condensed forms, rain, the child running, birds
pecking rhythmically atop alphabetic
cracked concrete. This reading of listening,
full references to created semantics,
the ignored symbols of multiple, beautified

Child Moment Parallel

The simple math of two
conversing children
enveloped by day's other numerical
equation of
hours plus minutes,
is the realization that circular
diagrams are the existence
of defying death, the face of the clock
whose emotional content
never fades from smile
foreign melancholy.

Of Opposites

Through the possible significance of a
bstraction, line for painter, the verbal
wand waved says the poet acclimates
to post contemporary, the hidden
meanings. Wind also
wraps its many or multi
limbed features around and
through society, —gale, too and
necessary tissue soft embraces.
Dichotomies must exist, should call
themselves the language of truism:
value toward translucent bodies
walking toward beings of tangible

-previously published at Unlikely Stories

Traveling This Seesaw

they call it Bipolar Disorder

I nail myself off, away from hurricanes—
their absurd wind speeds and diluting rains,
deaths inducing bone pain and misery,
from blatant symbols of the earth—
any famed legend of trees and deepest
foot of ocean, the good of leaves and moisture,
the battles to conserve the souls of both,
from the mirror holding my oval face
and the faces of gone by elders—
my aging reflection, deepening wrinkles
aggressing against the past, my razor’s
stainless steel, more legible
than my reversing, weakening smile,
from whispering voices—
familiar in love and wants for my success,
their bending, embedding words mean nothing
as I travel the distance cutting their supply,
from food and drink—
their enticing bodies that long ago
would heal my throbbing tongue,
from favorite books—
published words and polished photos,
effort and talent
catching the eye of an opinion,
from organized writing—
isolation arrests my will, pens regress into stillness,
my mind is sealed rubbish,
Do Not Enter stapled against life’s intent,
people, dogs smiles, anything on a whim
could push my hand
into shaping letters
across the fertile page,

Adrenal gland, plump as a rare steak
shoves its ooze through me quickly.
Sustenance sustains itself.
Lingering sleep means wasted moments
to jump off of ending life. Someone else enters me,
not an apparition or type of evil intent,
but someone from a comic book
or brash legendary status.
Reaching hands thrust holes
in my pockets: money becomes infinite,
until bills heavy with mistakes slaps me
with the idiot epithet. Help tries to comfort me,
spilling pills atop my tongue
flushed down by water and fear. Dreams
occur in the oddest, slanting shapes: running,
quickly away from death—no bullet
or knife swipe can connect with my flesh,
I’m running, leaping over desolate chunks
of earth interpreted as my doubts. Who knows?
I wonder from my sweating bed and sessions
of examination prescribed by my last hope.

-previously published at The Beat

Painters' Exhalations 399

-after Rick Begneaud's Gossip of Romance

The lovers forgot to tell their friends
to misplace their tongues. Their friends
have garage door mouths,
constantly broken in the positional
state of asking robbers to enter. Their friends
are of the loud variety. Myriad spoken prose
breaking wedding gift porcelain promises
forgotten as interaction dissipates. Once discarded
words near thin twigs on campgrounds
erupted into angry flame:
the lovers found semblance of rumored
echoes lying limp near lifeless,
their names in the bellies of the forthcoming

-previously published at Word Catalyst Magazine  

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