The blue feels the white creeping,
stammering all over it. Perhaps
modern, blown lines, almost like ink,
the master of all for logical beauty,
Scarlatti sprinkles forks of death,
arriving through valleys in gutters.
underneath door jams, violent forks,
seething and slithering through the grinding
grout, grabbing bits of drywall, making
all appear destroyed by these punk offspring,
one who is strung out, as if by an Oak Tree,
with desperate chords that symbolize suicide,
starting in the purple of the stomach and vehemently
climbing as if a vine up these poisoned muscles,
throttling the neck, creating a flu of alien proportions,
creating the birth of the unknown guest,
depression, and the other sneaking to the kitchen,
because he innocently loves the cookies,
the other being so sweet to all of humans
despite the poisoning from Swanson’s,
green beans of rubber, and not intentional
hate, but love that will not cover him. Love
that leaves him on the side of the road,
pulling weeds, sucking on hay. The other is the
one, but a strange god was there, and the mostly-
full, gallon can of white ceiling paint tips warmly
and lovingly, and the one without love falls
with the cookies into a thick, fast-moving, syrupy
jelly, bloviating white – almost a river, and the
source of the Scarlatti stops, stomps slowly to see
what has been done, and screams, and screams, and
screams, while the one with flu hides in the corner
from the dirigible of scotch bottles which is blacking
out the love, and the one with flu is dragged by hair
to the accident scene, and then again, the screams,
and screams, and screams, and 11 pm, 1 am, 5 am,
bucket after bucket, as if it will never come back,
hell being this permanent scrubbing – scrub, you
bastard, you fucking asshole, scrub, scrub, and
the blue starts to feel blue again with the white
creeping while before the white was killing, killing,
and it was all of their tears, cleaning the white,
but not all the white, the tears not stopping because
they flow in these locations where there is no love,
and where there is none, there is scrubbing, and when
you asked me about hell, this is one of thousands
of places I thought of, places, events, devoid of love,
and they are everywhere. Do not open your eyes.
.
stillfugue 
#1 by heikewrites on September 3, 2012 - 5:11 pm
oh my god. this is amazing.
#2 by Carl on September 6, 2012 - 7:42 pm
I did have and still have a lot of doubts about whether it worked, but I loved creating it. Thank you for your very kind comment!
#3 by Hudson Howl on September 3, 2012 - 10:30 pm
Void of love, yes. But these are not the things which give love are they -I suspect that is what telling. Is that part of the ‘healing’ realizing what is capable and incapable of love. I wonder to myself, what is love? In depression, not feeling must be excruciating.
#4 by Carl on September 6, 2012 - 7:44 pm
It didn’t work very well, but I think it is those things and actions that take away the love that is inside of us. Thanks for commenting.
#5 by Hudson Howl on September 6, 2012 - 8:03 pm
That’s profound and quite accurate. I should be thanking you. Thank you for sharing your insight. Always find things here which move me or make me think. What could be better.
#6 by Carl on September 6, 2012 - 8:33 pm
You are very kind! Thank you!
#7 by Carl D'Agostino on September 4, 2012 - 12:14 pm
imagery, metaphor, personification makes me read a second and third time as adds depth compared to most vapid stuff
they call contemporary poetry.
#8 by Carl on September 6, 2012 - 7:45 pm
Your comment means a great deal, Carl. I was worried that in my abstractness, I was being vapid.
#9 by Carl D'Agostino on September 27, 2012 - 2:30 pm
“Do not open your eyes.”
Upon second read we may have to, to avoid the traps. And hell certainly is the absence of love. An original image and seems a proper characterization.
#10 by Carl on October 6, 2012 - 4:16 pm
Thank you for your comment. I appreciate your observations.
#11 by Evelyn on September 4, 2012 - 12:46 pm
I challlenge you to single-word title some poems, Carl.
#12 by Carl on September 6, 2012 - 7:46 pm
Evelyn, my objective with the titles is to limit the readers frame of reference. How do I avoid quaint misdirection with single word titles?
#13 by Evelyn on September 6, 2012 - 8:05 pm
thats the burden you must carry. Sorry. you must commit.
#14 by Carl on September 6, 2012 - 8:34 pm
How would they do better for me?
#15 by Evelyn on September 7, 2012 - 12:21 pm
We have talked about you offering up too many words, unable to say things with less. but that talent, that tool is a good one. if you only give us a one word title, that is going to really make us think. all your titles are like 6 words. its too much. But thats my opinion. in your poems you have definitely worked on and made strong your ability to be leaner and stronger, which is awesome.
#16 by Carl on September 9, 2012 - 8:56 pm
I understand your point, Evelyn – make us think. But no matter how I fight it, I am an expressive and am more worried about communicating. I need to do some Tanka exercises because I love what that does for you. It’s not as dreamy for me and is more concrete, but it is good for me here and there.
#17 by heike on September 7, 2012 - 1:22 pm
Dear Evelyn, i beg to disagree …. there is not a word too much here, i think (i feel 🙂 …but i have no time to elaborate 😦 … so sorry. i’ll try to come back to it.
#18 by Pamela on September 5, 2012 - 11:03 am
Yep–blown away. The use of colors as powerful imagery and the last lines–incredible, “you asked me about hell, this is one of thousands
of places I thought of, places, events, devoid of love,
and they are everywhere. Do not open your eyes.”
#19 by Carl on September 6, 2012 - 7:47 pm
Thank you for your comment. It means a great deal to me.
#20 by Pamela on September 7, 2012 - 1:03 pm
It’s true and I’m glad it means a lot to you :-). Think we’re going to have a hockey season?
#21 by Carl on September 9, 2012 - 8:54 pm
I hope we have a season. Those fellows might need to realize that they are not at the “American Pastime” status.
#22 by Pamela on September 10, 2012 - 8:07 am
Hah–I concur. Get with the program! Don’t know what I’ll do if the season is delayed or *gasp* non-existent.
#23 by claudia on September 6, 2012 - 2:26 pm
you know – what i find most amazing in your writing is that your images always carry so much emotions and i’m not sure how you’re doing it
#24 by Carl on September 6, 2012 - 7:49 pm
Claudia, those are very kind words. I’m reflecting. I don’t have a clue how I do that! But everything I write comes from intense emotion. I’m not very good at doing objective writing unless I’m at work and working on a compliance report.