3 poems || Felino A. Soriano

a selection from configuring recollections

from XXI – XXX

 
Of the age, monumental

my home a delicate distance::birth

into the crawl/walk/drive

paradigmatic lean toward

                                       this legal

definition of numerical inhalation—

entering where light pivots/pulls

diagrammed pulsing

the life toward understanding is the supposed

enactment generations witness

as how the hinge of path

creates permanent (or, altered)

delinquency or gregarious

optimistic segways

comprised dichotomy of a being’s circumstantial circumference

I’ve despised and evaporated

this disdain, an

eventual

curtailing physiology, a melt, a percussion

of heavy hands

drawing dissipation         as ongoing goal-philosophy—

I’ve enjoyed and solidified

of pre-shaped near-irony

if irony was the mirror’s

role in reminding the face

is only of the holder’s       not

the watchers’ indication

of misspelling fathoms—theirs

I’ve divided

these corporeal echoes

collected data to encourage dialogue

aligning dilemmas, dissecting

what’s needed and undesired

within the pure movement

of how structure of moments’

dedicate shape and the positional

decision to halt or

become the ambulatory indication

to find and continue, whole

1:00 a.m.

near where I’ve driven

into 100’s of prior contoured

rotations

              this early aspect of

morning’s spectral discoveries—

home, my home, my dedicated

focal experience of where all comfort

dialogued with what my hankerings

exposed—

driving, a softened silence, left turn

into the driveway::the mirror’s

horizontal quiet an

act of dissipation with

sharp plosion of

bleeding light and echo

of a hitherto truant fear:: the officer’s

voice a blatant breath—

                                                          a genesis of wonder

                                                          if my appearance

                                                          appositional to the

                                                          time’s typical yawn

gave purpose to

where are you coming from?

is this your car?

is this your house?

show me your keys . . . you

look young . . . you

shouldn’t be out this late—

                                                          to turn was to realize and

sense created an absence

of fear and turntable

redundance as

each echo of occurrence

walked within the morning’s

remaining numerals

collecting my rest and

disturbed revelation