My Fibonacci Sequence Poem, "Aging," Up at Poetry with Mathematics

INTERSECTIONS: POETRY WITH MATHEMATICS

Aging (Fibonacci Sequence: 01123581321345589)

none

 

1(one) 

1(ego)  

two (I)

I 2 threeeeeeeeee

5 school, ruled 2 three   

hate math 8/5 parents split divisor 3 & me

bad teen luck black eight-in-hole no triskaidekaphobe call five ringtones call.

now lucky legal drink: I’m old-gold-rolled ready-to-hold; I stick on 13 so play vingt-et-un with me tonight.

still 13 in the soul, getting old with a balding, working luck. 34 is dirty floor & still behind, & the legal drink now a double, hit me hit me & no! not prime.

Fivefive, now fivefive, finally loving the mother/other/the 21-still-angry child & forgiving the serious careerist, so knowing, so sure, so 34. Take our bald inner luck as it comes, let’s leave the dirty floor alone (why are these aches all right ,why are these losses, these losses, so possible to endure?) Five years plus ½ century, decoding while eroding, ofivefive. 

89 am I 8 or 9? The young ones are 34, my children 55. There are 13 pills in the morning, 13 pills at night. But what, exactly what might happen next? A working soul and another season’s turn, what else did I ever have? This world is greater than my numbers, the poésie of my self. I take the garbage out and set it on the street with joy. Tell me your secrets: I am the one who truly wants to know. Lemniscate, I move toward ∞ today.

Poems accepted for publication in RESIST MUCH / OBEY LITTLE: Inaugural Poems to the Resistance

Pleased that  my two poems, "Whorl's Eyelet Captured" and "Lager NYC" have been accepted for publication in Spuyten Duyvil's RESIST MUCH / OBEY LITTLE: Inaugural Poems to the Resistance. Here's "Whorl's":

Whorl’s Eyelet Captured

(Fibonacci Sequence Syllabic: 0 1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55 89)

The number of syllables in the verses correspond to the Fibonacci number in the sequence. All words in the poem are made up from the letters of the title (except one).  

O

 

who? 

how?

you howl. . .

are holy . . .

you heal, are heard: hear: 

Whose pure eyes tear, red arcs wetted?

Whose heresy elects? Who will select? You, petted

Howl! Whose trolls rap westerly trochees? You are scared, secretly care, are hard (how? ow!), healed.

Wholly here! Whose loyal laps are spared hotly? You allot acutely, adeptly. React: you are a royal red crypt. Holy, haloed, sealed?

How! Who? OURS! YOURS! Adulterers captured, whorl’s eyelet pastured!

Decelerate! Whore’s eye red, pour the tears. Educate (traduce). Clatter or rapture, pastures or captures, whose red caps cater, a parted sea? The alehouse is here, heeled.

How, who? A red letter! The Dane utters WORDS WORDS WORDS WORDS WORDS, or a puree, wetted, a treacle, a pact of red tears; they sear. Reduce (reeducate) your epaulets. Creep toward the words, curate the words, cure the words. Create heresy, push the crypts down. The tears of portly predators are sad, selected pees—ah, there is a who: you, a nascent howl, or two, healed.

My new e-chap, FIB SEQUENCE, FREE!