"sequencing" poems
A follow on poem to 'In the Sunroom (Suicide)" (1)
writ many years later...
~For MWK~
<>
A stray thought. a burring burrowing, thorny tawny:
A wish, yet to get, but vetted for each of us.
*This within, this redoubt, a contemplative oasis,
my indoor poet's nookery rookery sanctuary
each one, each is, deserves, all, one such,
a place holy filled, with lice and dirt of a life,
strained and trained for emission and transmission
of the best of the worst, and the triumphant emergent commission of
our individualized most excellent fresh best
where crumbs of apple crisp pie solidify, vanilla bean ice cream
melt offsets the oven heated warmth, and from this interactive
contrasts combative,
a poem pie reborn, newly disguised, familiar words,
yet unheard and before this very never,
went unspoken and now goes forth
svelte and unbroken
*rhymes of yore, forgot from a before, but making up the walls
of the here and now,
a sunroom to spread out the lit lights of egress and entrance,
of fire door no exits that now are chiseled closed,
lock in, lock up, and somehow, one, stills to learn from
the stilling quiet solitude.
to penetrate the prostrate kneeling grinning grief,
how to expel and spell the words
that grant
relief
visit my sunroom, though no fiction.
the sun rays *********** create the friction
of that which cannot ever be withered nor contained,
and your mouth opens wide and a poem birthed and delivered,
pastiche paste composted of truth and dreams of fiction, fine diction,
with a shrug, a smile, a satisfaction extracted extraordinary,
you garner moments of satisfaction but cloud cover returns,
and the process of sunrise exposition recommences,
and one revisits the elemental sequencing of
all the predecessor pain, but this time,
for gain, for gain,
<>
written this sabbath Saturday
12:38am EST
Sat Aug 2
2025
in the sunroom,
on Shelter Island
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 12:59 AM UTC
Saturate and brimming of my hometown Boston,
of its sunshine Marathon peoples and bomb images,
my heart fracture rend.
On the third day—resurrection of all my sadness
came to me, feeling fresh and born to fruition,
so this grew.
It grew and through my tears coming,
I stood to witness two loving sparrows
on a window branch.
My sadness at some abeyance, studying and curious
I was of her--all akimbo shivers and rock-in-roll, of him--
flying feathered stone, rolling from branch to branch
and coming home, repeatedly.
Circles flying within moving circles!
Did something happen
with the last jiggle of her branch?
Did you see that? Science says
what they were doing—they had finished.
(But what to believe of science?
It calls their loving--mating rather).
Now to tell you—the sequencing was this:
when I was full knocked down
on account of my grief,
and I hardly had strength to go on,
a Beatles song flew in and gently pierced my heart,
singing to my ear: *Why don't we do it in the road...
no one will be watching us...why, why don't we do it*
O, Spring Life of Sparrow surprises!
Open road, that budding tree,
any new notion is something grand!
How do I say now? That you two
were most helpful, your innocence
forever abiding?
Fly off Sparrows, forever prayer!
I speak this with all my love.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 5:45 AM UTC
A desiccated brown leaf remembering greener days,
summersaults stem over end into the exposed cold dirt softened somewhat in demeanor by the grass and radiant shafts
The geese and ducks squawk and honk in the distance
Congratulating each other for the day's richness
and the way the sun feels on their proud beaks
glinting off the water in its way
a shimmering band
A princely golden carpet forever unrolling and yet complete
The sun's spindle weaves gems of light into a gossamer web
laid glittering across the water
A vision for Moses
who saw the true path through the sea
Fireworks Forever exploding sunlight
Gifted to the eye on clear liquid canvas
The wind ripples the waves
wrinkles pushed along
foaming in the sand
Little Kisses
on the grainy cheek
Star Flashes Communicating ancient patterns
Secrets of Existence Coming in Morse code, Fibonacci Sequencing,
Sacred Geometry in Twinkling Motion
Individual explosions blinking on a natural switchboard
Telling the architectural answer
Manifesting the blueprint
to only every reason why
The Last Leaf sings in the Breeze, swinging
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 12:03 PM UTC
.ah here comes england with its eccentricities, ah hier kommt polen mit seine christentum: where anyone can be a messiah, as stressed by the byzantines.
my first love was the love of the english grey,
(in honesty mentioned it was
the double-decker first, since
i fancied myself the great bus-driver of
the no. 5 bus back home)
earl grey came and said: ‘i can’t look
at these skies without sunglasses!’
and so it was, mid-autumn with sunglasses
at loss the sun-worshiper
enter the moon idiot,
looking for accents, looking for anything.
in england they called him das deutsche -
for reasons believable enough;
the luftwaffe eagerly anticipating the tunnelling
centipede that is the euro-star train-tunnel:
the panzers are rolling in!
the panzers are rolling in!
strange he never minded the coal-miners as useful
as minded by edvard gierek von silesia -
to the dispute of silesians not ex-patriated to saxony
(oh wait... texan boy doesn't sound as
nationalistic as minnesota boy?).
ooh pokey poo... writing about germany
became so **** so recently, i forget that i started it:
here’s to the english language’s chirality of s and z,
actually being superimposable:
from words in the socratic sense as encoded by plato
i don't get a bunch of ideas... virtue
does not make me ponder it with meaning or definition,
i only see the kabbalistic sensibility
of anti-alphabetical sequencing as v
i r t u e...
otherwise e i u r t v;
almost sounds like s.t.d.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 6:33 AM UTC
Behold bright symphonic Blast!
Halt the snail bite damage of youth.
There is none to resist the place and time of one who missed the equal avenue.
Dropping before your phantom, dispirited dew, before shadow portrait drops.
Swine with silver throats!
Corpse of embers preamble multi-various multi-vacuous semi-forte polar rhythms.
Sequencing selves in wood and wire. Pinions at drifted tempo, quavering for poly-syllabic idioms,
In sectioned hostels for their sense and glory restrung.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 10:30 AM UTC
A man born without wings into the ashes of a forest
dead leaves and a valley of butterflies
Bleached to be ethicless
effortless as it is
To go without pursuit of question
A mind of matter
Wherein death lies one doesn't know
You're feeling all these expectancies
all these dependencies
Energy of yours, unhinged
The screens written
with the bastardisation of simple truths
Rhythmic as a creature
as spoken wavelength navigating
A wondering memory standing in front of the collectives
Transcendence above the impermanence
A palace on the grounds among us, but separated
dangerous minds of a phenomenon, in sequencing
Unceasing in divinity and untempered
by the indignation of his companions
Free to be, among the meadows of ourselves.
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
cogito qua sum
because i thought the original cartesian model
was too stuffy,
had too many scientific models
and was riddled with moths,
plus it sounds better:
thought in the capacity of being -
plus there is absolutely no sequencing,
no sequencing of events and then doubting
that they happened, or denying they happened...
(in relation to thinking about them)
with the above stated you can have spatial awareness...
for example?
someone hammering nails has only a certain
capacity for thinking certain things...
someone watching the television has only
a certain capacity for thinking certain things...
as contradictory in strict cartesian terms
as daydreaming: like sitting in a classroom
learning about english grammar and thinking /
imagining (the same thing, both cognitive faculties)
you're on a beach in the maldives sipping a mojito
or that you're riding a roller coaster:
ergo et cetera... id est, multi vacuum prefix
absens locus in metaphora... ego noto ******
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 8:26 AM UTC
a woman comes to me at 2:20am,
from across the world, asking if I am that cool jew,
occupant/son of the unholy hours when death and crucifixion,
them two old friends, are waving temptation with both hands,
never mentioning heaven, offering .99 cents of sanitized compliments,
which for a fifth rate amateur writer is revolutionary,
as close as you will ever come to global recognition
that woman says, yes! you’re that insufferable fool whose
suffering keeps us awake when he should be sleeping in the
half-death state, in the unholy hours, only reporting back
what he has seen across the borderline, in these times
when a thousand-die-a-day daily from suffering
that is uniquely human, a wracking medieval torture,
granting those viral messengers, slow extra pleasure
be nice to yourself for a change, write ‘bout what they want,
broken love and suicide, mundane pain, keep it plain, short!
easy stuff that sells records, making you not whisper words
never meant to be shared, the language of the unholy hours,
a dialect unique, that Google can’t quite rightly translate,
for not every vision is substitutable, suitable, rated G for babies, so,
keep it short like a miserable life that needs a prophecy to complete
*48 hours ago thought I was infected, a glide path to rocky moon-smooth,
a landing where words unique, taken away, sealing your mouth with
tubed oxygen that inhibits thinking, air that might **** all of you, not just pain, but what makes you unique, your own 10 commandments
of speech, the old testament, the source book of insight into whatever
makes your lungs breath in rhythmic to heart beating, and dying
discordant disrupts the gene sequencing of inhaling and exhaling*
the editors and the critics overlooking, that sit on both shoulders,
are already complaining, no más, no más, no más!
suture that incision, close your mouth, the unholy hours
need a special silence, Ruth’s lips that move but go unheard,
make no mistake, we want to listen in, voyeurs of visions
but we need you broken, we need a break, from confronting
the repeatedly delayed, but undeniable, the clockwork orange
second coming of the ungodly hours
4:02am
Sabato
4/11/20twenty
new york city of lips
Apr 11, 2020
Apr 11, 2020 at 4:15 AM UTC
the silent impact passes as movements become masses and the despised things become what we're after. we're our own last chapter, ununique to the minute but maybe rare the moment after. we're glued to television screens the preach our own defeat and don't even acknowledge our new masters or their dying dreams. your life is a worried line and devoid of devoted patchwork.
dire sirens blaze as i ire lights to do the same
fire consumes desire and wired nights are left to blame
while the mired tired chime in that they also want a taste
the inspired have conspired and perspired away the shame
the flights are nights we've compiled into piles
and sights and lights are set on the ceiling and tiles
the fights deny what's right and blood goes for miles
and the right to die is what's sequencing our style
your moment was a second and it was shot to death in front of you. but first it asked what you are going to do. sit around and wait for a second chance to lose any moment that'll never come again and always shows up too soon? or sleep all day and forget you had a better life to prove?
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 11:31 PM UTC
watching the sequencing is a regular thing
this pattern never fails to deliver its best score
they who follow the method will be profiting
many times one has seen this eventuating
they're slotting into the bay's ideal shore
watching the sequencing is a regular thing
utilizing a placements good calculating
is not for them an overly arduous chore
they who follow the method will be profiting
success coming with each prized offering
being educated about this niche's core
watching the sequencing is a regular thing
it appears to be in the model's situating
this their station known as precision's store
they who follow the method will be profiting
on working out a program's functioning
none received counts which would bore
watching the sequencing is a regular thing
they who follow the method will be profiting
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 9:33 PM UTC
my grace is cherubic,
seraphic, angelic,
she is a temple built
upon skepticism.
my boy wears a sloth-suit
and is swept away by even
the weakest rapids after
dipping only his pinky toe.
my grace is a hefty FAFSA award,
and she is report card dinners,
a new-blue honda, a heartbreak,
she is coming home to do laundry.
my boy is a defect, anomalous,
he cannot bide his time and so
rushes. i chase him to the city
limits and hope he'll get it right.
my grace is building strength,
compartmentalizing, sequencing,
she is careening into career
and coping/moping with loss.
my boy is behind, he's lazy.
he shirks, avoids, evades,
any escape, any port, no storm,
he has to bring something else,
he only sits with us when he
wants something. he spends
time with us when it serves
his agenda, his procrastination,
he likes men; he's abnormal,
he has to bring something
extra to the table or else
it will reflect badly on me.
i never went to college.
i rarely did my homework,
so my daughter, son, my wife,
they bear the brunt of my avoidance.
my grace breaks down while
student-teaching. i love her.
my boy aces econ test after
physics quiz. i tolerate him.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 12:09 PM UTC
Any alienation possible on Earth,
is speculative, at best.
Chances are we are all bits.
Relativity, given a will to make sense,
at one stage the subtle hiss says we are
one mind, can not make sense of another,
all is mine, my mind, I run the decision tree,
intuited in code, init
from one seed,
proceed consideration,
ah, wait, seeds from nothing,
Chicken and egg sequencing, in mind,
rightly dividing, soul and spirit, will and way,
who can say,
we think, we live, with no forethought,
no plan to become, yet, then
now, jetzt wir sind, denken.
Nada mas. The upright walking man,
is unstable in all its ways, wombed and un.
Which leads to why we walk with toes
pointing everything thing in us to home.
Oct 20, 2024
Oct 20, 2024 at 4:59 PM UTC
Poetry and binary codes confuse me. One speaking in affects of numbers, the other in numbers of affectivity. If one could break the code to love, unrequited, divinely impassioned, or other obscure mixtures of, I could only see a cryptic deepening to such woeful confusion. Could one assign sequencing to the untangling of emotion, so that naive lovers might surpass calculated risk? If so, should it be done? I insist, it should be done at once. Assigning bit strings of zeros and ones to compute perfect poetry in which a reader might be forced to fall in love by measured affectations, algorithms deciphered to personal tastes, then subjected by power of suggestion encoded in grandiose pairings of words, suited to the individual reader, ah thus, I begin my army of love slaves. Are you reading my subliminal messaging? You see now, that didn't hurt one megabit. Did it?
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
I look out the peek hole, how obscure; everything is so small on the other side of the ancient blue door. And with a world so dark you would think the light’s shining rays would be so eagerly compassionate to leak its way in. I would rather fight than hide, for all that has ever disclosed light unto my destiny, even still I remained blind. The past is sequencing me like a storybook that has already been written. Bitten into the forbidden fruit too many times, in excess—his stomach cannot muscle such atrocities, diagnosis him with food poisoning.
Recklessly disputing against my own words, desperately reaching for whatsoever crawls under my nose. Well, I suppose I have managed as you can see. In a panic somehow I was able to scavenge up a couple of good things. It is about time I pull my own weight, time is ticking, and nobody is waiting on you. Master fate your late, eternity does not hesitate ither, and I have steered off the path for quite awhile—opportunity, hope, trust in you—I am late, but do not make insinuations, do not count yourself out just yet. Have you forgotten who you are? Possibly so, I find the present as good as any to give myself another venture to demonstrate, moreover discover, just why I have been granted to come along solely for you, master of fate—ready, set, explosions.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
It's viewing the symphonies of Beethoven as vibrations, mathematical sequencing, and euphoria. Michelangelos' masterpieces as indentations on a rock.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
forever better
alone with production
forever better
attending to poetic tendencies
the skies cry as I write
smoke so thick that it puts fog in the corner
heavy winds and planes rushing overhead
lightning with no trace of thunder
the wind rumbles louder
sequencing with my stomach
as I ache for inspiration in every toxic breath
that follows after the fire spreads
I smoke with the earth
as my lungs bleed
together with my heart
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
I used to be attracted to affection,
now I'm obsessed with the way your lips stutter
over certain words, like "fragile: do not open" is stuck
somewhere between your throat
and your teeth.
My heart is a fire extinguisher
"Break Glass In Case of Emergency"
but there have been enough 24 hour crisis lines
to keep us all alive
the only thing about it is
the number of times I've wanted to jump out onto the pavement,
the "too-close-for-comforts" started in the womb,
I was slow-milking my mother's blood,
every fist that flew too close,
every string she threaded through a bead
sequencing DNA
I guess I turned out alright,
if "alright" is a unit of measurement.
But our scales are all tailored
to fit our needs anyway.
Jul 9, 2019
Jul 9, 2019 at 12:10 AM UTC
A discount soundboard,
rust chipping away the corners,
with a fresh coat of Pabst-stained rings
orbiting it's various dials,
is the solicitous reward of my uncle's will
for my third year production.
My daughter camp around me,
lining themselves on the far side
of this short room;
a phase of white walls
and even whiter light,
sagging their AM eyes
to cocoon into their sleeping bags,
shield themselves
from the permanent fixtures,
cuddle with themselves
while I slide volume controls.
Forest calls spliced to the ambiance
of last winter's **** synchronized
to the wet thuds of my friend's face
pulping repeatedly into a tree.
We shot heavy boots in this scene;
snow crunching viciously
as his mangled body was dragged off frame.
I twist rotary knobs,
clumsily from finger grease,
as the captured rumblings of far off traffic
corrupts a month's work of sequencing.
Nature had retreated
from this Northwestern city,
had left only the rustling of pine needles
and useless silence
for the making of this movie.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 1:06 PM UTC
I walk by the same modest tree, a few times a day – a species I haven’t seen in my native desert land but enjoy as a bittersweet reminder of all the rain – and watch gradually, its metamorphosis that reveals to me much more than just the literal sequencing of time. It starts as a plain tree, tear shaped bottle-green leaves dropping uniformly from a body the color of milk with not quite enough syrup mixed in.
Each day the same – tree, leaves, tree, leaves, until all at once as if overnight evolution were a possibility, flowers. White, too, but much lighter than the body; like cream whipped just a few seconds too long. A tree built by symmetry, the tear shaped leaves mirrored then multiplied in the petals that cling to their seeded centers.
About days and time: as they pass, we tend not to notice until they’re already gone. The white of the flowers now blushed sunset pink on the tips – a welcome change in vibrancy, highlighting the stark contrast of hues and Bodhisattva – I could almost feel the radiation heat. The root of the tree was exploding to the very seams of the pedals, flush with the understanding that it will always meet mirrors edge; like the very core of the tree was bleeding to be seen, a red giant suspended in the eye of a storm. A heart kept on such fair sleeve.
More days, more time – I almost don’t recognize the flowers. The ends are curled with age and now there’s just dried blood on bone; like dirt on the face of a once pure child, the white pedals wilt with amber remorse for burning too bright. Such a cycle, I think and marvel at the beauty in the consequence of an accomplished life. The stale skeletons rattle on the tree to remind me that nothing worth loving could ever last.
As with Seasons, so too – the white dwarf fades to black in the inevitability of an ended life. But promise not to mourn, it begs, and implodes its seeded center to begin anew.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
That's what its for Carly Rose,
if you don't use it, you lose it
a bowl of green with eggs and steak on the fourth of July
Independents day and we're whacked out Americans living breathing and dying by the scores and handfuls, the plague walks among us now, I read in the paper it says more and more get it and case numbers soar, my uncle tells me that it reminds him of Vietnam and the number of enemies KIA at the end totaling three times the entire population of the region, but I digress,
the whistle rings true and the crack and pop of the firecrackers feels good to see it, feels like you're lost caught in something special
I stumble onto an old path, past the mansions of Bexley on the edge of the railroad track overlooking the river and behind us peeking in the bend behind the trees stands the city skyline, the glass and stone towers gleaming in the darkening sunset of orange burnt moonlight encased in a tunnel of evergreen pines and peak summer shrubs alight with the blinking of fireflies, sequencing the secret we are all trying to express, I want you, I want you all, you beautiful creatures of this world, we pulsate and ;lust with every fiber of our beings hoping for a moment of sensual touch we stretch out and burn alive this word is meant for *** and love and god bless us if we can get both, running and gunning, that's what the languid pulse of the fire flies calling out with their golden green lights under the dull moon sang about as the head lights from distant cars would slide across a rail road intersection in some sleepy part of town, the full moon bright as a harvest stone, framed in this, secret forgotten, a lot, broken glass on concrete and gravel graffiti nonsense, neon bike lights dancing, leading a way through another day
Aug 30, 2020
Aug 30, 2020 at 1:05 PM UTC
This is one of the worst sequences,
there is some which have happened beyond this,
but that's only because my death is potential,
it hasn't happened... yet.
There is an open road,
we cross it,
I pass a bizarre building,
"what are you doing?"
"where are you going?"
you say.
I can feel your gaze on my back,
I don't turn round,
because your inquisitive look,
would tear my heart even more,
I tell you to go on and give me a min',
In my normal way.
And then you go on with the other one,
I slump down at the wall,
gazing on past Bethesda,
into the green pastures of the after life,
sequencing about the terror that is happening with you.
And like always I'm beaten by my body,
my heart,
my breath,
thats when I end,
you come out when you're done to check I'm ok,
but then I gaze into your lush eyes,
I'm to scared to gaze anywhere else,
just incase I see something that further scares me,
you then just watch me slip away.
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
Mingle, why don’t you
With fingertips of lover’s hands
Hanging on your every thought,
Each touching singing circles
Graced by cauliflower crinkles
Sprinkled amid skull candy
Resonance, eat me alive
Aspire to consume each morsel
Crumbled, scattered along
Crackling rivets submerged
Sequencing soliloquies into lullabies
Maybe minds are meant for mumbling
Mixing whispers while wind whistles
Wishfully right near nothing
Invision, I am searching souls
Such journeys jangle
Jamming icy stares
Fighting tall standing fixtures
Towering into screams
Deafening anyone brave enough
Lingering foliage flusters us
Come hither, life is togetherness
So kiss my intimacy
Should daring define lifetimes
Forever hues don’t fade
Saturation stings true here
Apr 29, 2025
Apr 29, 2025 at 8:39 AM UTC
Matter in conjunction with sound
A pattern it shall form
A world under sound surveillance
What vibrations are being conveyed
What melody are we dancing to
Like a Chladni plate
A pulse of sound
The plate the world
The sand the people
Programmed to dance to a distant drum
Hypnotised but unaware
By a cosmic sound thumping through the air
Controlled by the powers that be
Until one day a cosmic intervention
Shall put an end to the sequencing beat
And we shall awaken from our sleep
Sep 19, 2019
Sep 19, 2019 at 7:47 AM UTC