Tuesday, November 8, 2016

Felino Sorino

Of this Momentum Song (eighty-two) 
     Diurnal is what we’ve come
   across     lines of linear landscape
      and the signature style
                            of flat,
          uninteresting rhythms.  This is and
       not to say an increase
            to stamina isn’t
                made from
        what intuitively sent us.  As when
              the ear invents
    from the flame of small
  grating from nothing’s
        silent warmth     to gain then, is
    to begin in
   the slow walk
      of positioning the/a     (disparate/or same)
    body to bend
          in from exterior


     compose from these
  pluralized perspectives, the
       language/s of insomnia
     can invite what invigorates,
          as with someone else’s
    hand in the giving motion

        across these floors
       dirt diagrams where we’re
          going, gives looks to
         prior positions with
               drawing missing
          homes into which we
    recall or pull voice
       from the diligent
      architectural absence  again

Of this Momentum Song (eighty-three)

     The way this rustling is:
    or, what ends this way
        never began in the
         of animated, sybaritic function.  Birth
  fluctuates then, isn’t.  To what years
      do: I’ve overheard the
   mobility of it and
     not knowing the
    density of leaving
         out rhythm to
     swing upon and
            cycle.  This is the
       word of elation... demonstrated
                              victories, in how
  the body is ornamentation     a chisel
    taken to an unlimited
 arrival     too, with paint
      the face rearranges
         according to the season of
  moments’ disparate presentation

Of this Momentum Song (eighty-four)

   What is said of it knowing
     where the ending is isolated.  We
  bridge here: amid what Trumpet
        does in the swelling of sound-on
   -sound inside the various compartments.  Dialogue,
                                           we companion with.
     With it, a certain form
  of hearsay avalanches.
        This is what Drums
   does among brethren of
      Rhythm’s calculated
          ti                            o
                                     n.    We sing to
    whom the
 singing wanted—                         into what bouquets wear
        on wrist with scents
                           that fall—
  the perfume is environment                   shaping how the body
             eventually evaporates
    whole and fragmented
 in the staccato bone of memory’s
         fragile skeleton.


    We look to swim
  in this burn of late
       Summer theater—
   marrow recites us
      in the age of who knows what’s ahead?, for
         what prophecy fails
    in doing,
        the body portends
  in the lyric of the music’s
      dynamic occultation.

          I will remember, then,
    the purpose of presence and


Of this Momentum Song (eighty-five)

  What this life
 is now
                         a lost configuration.  Or
      a chaotic
     what was is
 a                      removed
           version of leaning toward expected behavior.

   What is missed: body
  grayed from what
       age writes into its
     prose.  Of what
    the body did, nothing
          holds its fathoms.  More so, or
                                only, now, is

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