Subterranean Blue Poetry


Felino A. Soriano

(from Oscillating Memories)

by Felino Soriano


The friction of moths eloping. Noon, the modest
potential to inflict unseen devotion to correcting
nuance. The hands shook, mimesis of a dancing
child’s joyful scramble. Colors contain flourish,
an abscond of traditional motif, elongated structure.
The wind searched. Each moth a connected fathom
drawing distance paralleling death. The context a
lesson toward believing futurity.


While waiting, an eruption of
turquoise. Winged, jazz-blur
syllables, sayings, —succinct
partitions provide causal pause
to intertwine with sound and
motivated structural inclusion.


     running I
                     antiphonies amid
           splays of

unbroken crows

                                                             sitting I
                                                              hankered resolution between bankrupt
                                                                              colors among
deliberate existence of gray

neither gradation nor
composed calligraphy’s
contouring expression of

                                                  internal collaboration—innate specifics to
altered skeletal becoming
and my watching became
a proverbial verb of
interior interpretation

Main St.

by Felino A. Soriano

To unfasten the grammar of the cultivated corner. Pigeon, person
clump of nuance. Nobody listens like the ambulance’s yawl.
Follow. Fallow decisions lose direction, purpose cannot flex
against noon’s vertical emblem. Miracles slide positions. Offset
range, onset rage. No one explicates a paradox; half-wing, whole-
loss paradigm, these visitors walk using foreheads as gauge—
their faces, fractioned, pivots of absent intention.

Eyes’ intervals

by Felino A. Soriano

When I am listening, my good eye is at attention. To say, placement and palm-
full of theories. The other is walking to choose a flower for my wife, and this
listening is imperative in another formulation. Both, though separated, ejected
homonyms. This morning, both were folded. Interior pleasure. Light hadn’t a
body yet, hadn’t a species to have man misname, misinterpret. When climbing,
light gradates, inspires syncopated crows to open into breath.

Image or mirage concealment

by Felino A. Soriano

Remaining, as does the quiet. Hunger. What shifts
into vocabulary of hanker. To prove circles create
recreated methods to instill secrets. During many
mornings I softened my feet prior to their breathing,
sang into distance to prelude the body’s subsequent
alteration. Fever. My hands are connected wings
waving rhythms to my prior mistakes. Awoke. Or,
these orphaned interiors cannot speak, cannot
segregate to reform music into hallowed spectrums
of hardcover text.


by Felino A. Soriano

Threaded calm. Holding. Concise, the body neither bends nor believes.
Revelation freedom, the name I’ve given to this moment means dissolve.

Subterranean Blue Poetry

© 2012