'Unsure' Unknown (any crit)
#1
Too late again, it's already viral.
Who knew a video could do such harm?
The media has made me homicidal:
I'm ridiculed because I'm from a farm,
because I have a basic education,
because I think and talk slow. It's my life!
It's a hard to achieve meditation.
Lucky, I found a compatible wife.
There's very few things I wouldn't notice,
but every time I talk, I sound dumber.
My defense mechanism's to focus
on all things tied together through numbers,
experience my spirits revival
everywhere I see the golden spiral.

I get the most euphoric sensation
everywhere I see the golden spiral.
I don't need meticulous equations
to know my odds don't change every die roll.
To happen once, it might happen again.
Murphy's law and karma and string theory...
Specks at infinetessimal depths in
existence, real and imaginary.
Sometimes, these feelings fade and I panic
and desperately solve Su Do Ku puzzles
to stay sharp, I mean nicotine frantic!
But, new information always muddled
the useless numbers streaming through my brain.
Thankfully now, I see I was insane.

In the video I  try to explain,
I regulated your meds every night.
The useless numbers streaming through my brain 
kept vigilant, the dosage always right!
But that you couldn't give it to yourself,
and just so happened to have had too much,
and an antique collection on the shelf,
inheritances left to me and such,
of course your death was premeditated!
Of course your old man's just looking to score,
disregarding I'm unmedicated.
So, now I consciously try to ignore
anything I can put in a pattern.
I killed my love, and nothing else matters.

Seventy years and deteriorate,
of all places locked behind a cell door,
with no one outside.  Only my death waits,
so now I consciously try to ignore
any unchecked growing feelings of guilt
with no memory of evil intent.
In sewing class, I visualize your quilt,
and everyday relive the accident.
Maybe there's not enough blood in my veins
to make right decisions.  Life is thinner,
while no longer distracting from my pain.
In a few years, I'll be hand-fed dinner.
It would be nice to join you in heaven,
But if I killed you, I don't think I can.

Three years of fun and ten more of nagging,
our brief separation and reunion,
the counsel that kept us from back-tracking,
years of compromising my opinions
while no longer distracting from my pain.
You had a heart attack and broke your hip.
The pills that kept you going left you drained,
But I stayed faithful through your bitter lip,
even long after you were bed-ridden.
They never used to sting like this before,
subconsciously I've always been smitten,
I'm just too old to argue anymore.
I'll follow all my orders here in jail
until my bodily functions all fail.

I'm guessing this is how you must have felt,
completely at the mercy of others
who couldn't comprehend what you've been dealt,
incapacitated, sickly smothered.
I'm dwelling on day dreams of suicide.
They never used to sting like this before.
You died the day I took you for my bride...
Oceans of time, emotions we've explored
and fed, a big passive-aggressive bug 
of residual resentment and hate
we can no longer squash out with a hug
since you first slipped to a vegetable state.
The doctors here are giving me some pills
but take too much,  I still don't think I will.

I'm losing my grip on reality.
My conditions steadily worsening.
They always discover new maladies,
but what's really wrong, no one's listening.
The only obvious answers more drugs,
rendering me a useless drone.  They went
and fed a big passive aggressive bug,
wondering what coincidences meant.
My cell number's 853211,
exactly 55 years were married,
honeymoon we both just turned 21,
we were 34 when we remarried.
I wish you were here, pieces aren't linking -
You would let me know what you were thinking.




There was a time when patterns mesmerized
and opened up the possibilities.
Trusting my intuition, close my eyes,
connecting dots through all philosophies,
and any time I'd think I need to vent,
my shoulders rolled off troubles every shrug,
wondering what coincidences meant,
and fed a big passive-aggressive bug.
They never used to sting like this before,
and no longer distract me from my pain,
so now I consciously try to ignore
the useless numbers streaming through my brain. 
Everywhere I see the golden spiral,
too late again, it's already viral.




You can't hear my last thoughts lying in bed,
remembering when we were happy, young,
and all the hopes and dreams that laid ahead.
The news that I couldn't bear children stung,
so tense the way you held your coffee mug
and spent six days sleeping in the basement.
My shoulders rolled off troubles every shrug
wondering what coincidences meant.
I knew that one hundred forty four was
your favorite number: where the Fibonacci 
sequence meets perfect squares. Pythagoras
wasn't crazy like you.  Your mind's splotchy
from routine and responsibility.
I don't trust your mental stability.

I don't believe you would try to kill me
but you're clearly losing it, and I can't
go days not knowing whether I'll get three
or eight, or zero, and I could just rant
and scream but I don't have the strength.  I dont,
and anytime I'd think I need to vent,
I'd just shut down, because I know you won't
get back to your senses.  All this time spent,
my shoulders rolled off troubles every shrug,
but then I think what will happen to you,
dying alone, collapsing on a rug,
helpless.  If there was something I could do,
I'd make sure you were well taken care of.
Maybe I'm desperate, maybe this is love.

Wrestling with questions, answers, right and wrong,
trying to surrender to the river
of numbers you've obsessed over so long,
but I'm struggling with nothing to live for.
Connecting dots through all philosophies,
mostly how Plato and Aristotle
justified the actions of Socrates,
I should swallow the whole bottle
so you won't have to worry or bother,
and anytime I'd think I need to vent
hate from breath I'm unable to draw, there
are more reasons for me to be absent
anyways.  Now, how can I save you too,
and take care of you, so you won't have to?

I know where you'll get three meals everyday,
a bed to sleep on and good exercise.
They'll have to believe it's murder.  I pray,
trusting my intuition,  close my eyes,
hope my old, sore legs make it to their feet
and across the whole room without falling
and all the evidence as it was, neat
in the drawer.  The idea is appalling
but the only thing to put me at ease
is convincing myself this is your fault,
connecting dots through all philosophies,
any disagreement brought to a halt
by your infinite eternal wisdom,
now a more debilitating syndrom.

I thought a seizure was shaking my knees
but I made it, and fiddled with the cap,
and opened up the possibilities,
and leveled a handful back in my lap,
too tired to take them all right away.
I hadn't even stood up in five years
and can't believe this plan might really play
out.  Better hurry, I think I can hear
the stairs.  My heart might explode already,
exhausted.  I can't stop now.  Visualize
the ultimate goal: release.  Hands steady,
trusting my intuition, close my eyes...
But all the possible outcomes I'm shown,
I'll always be unsure of the unknown.

Nothing happened for a while, just breathing.
There was a time when patterns mesmerized 
and danced in the darkness, just daydreaming
about our first date's big carnival prize.
You've been my rock for half a century
not mentioning a few chips and cracks.
I took up sewing to stop bickering,
the counselor's suggestion to help relax.
Scenes of Greek goddesses in their temples;
tokens from our honeymoon adventure;
starfish, snail shells, sunflowers, pineapples.
Our cuddle time on the sofa ensured
and opened up the possibilities
of growing closer.  Ancient histories.

Too late, again.  It's already viral.
The pressure in my heart's unbearable,
tremendous pain, no chance of survival.
Last second hope heaven's attainable,
is that a golden spiral in the sky?
Am I hovering outside on a hill?
Do you make it in prison for my lie? 
Do you die of grief to be with me still?
I'm just going to count until I reach 
the result of my choices or destiny.
I hope it's a blue sea and white sand beach.
One, one, two, three, five, eight, thirteen, twenty-
I guess nothing goes with, when someone dies;
there was a time when patterns mesmerized
Peanut butter honey banana sandwiches
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#2
C, enjoyed reading this.  I was confused by the change in speakers after stanza 5 (?) and I think it would be good to split it into two sections.  Since it's a long poem, that also gives readers a chance to pause and take a breath..

I really liked the first section the most; the speaker and his numbers/patterns obsessions.  Second section not so much, but that may be more the subject matter than anything else.  Getting old is not a subject I enjoy reading about.  I'm living it.
"Poetry is the rhythmic, inevitably narrative, movement from an overclothed blindness to a naked vision."  Dylan Thomas
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#3
Good idea, done - thanks!
Peanut butter honey banana sandwiches
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