REWRITING A COVENANT
“You have your paintbrush and colors. Paint Paradise, and in you go.”---Nikos Kazantzakis
It would have to be a clear canvas, and all the walls a limitlessexpanse of nothing. Yet. My easel could turn or slide in all
possible directions, my palette a saucer of rainbows.
These are my terms before I end up in a heaven or hellnot of my own making: that I would be a child again,
wild again, unbridled in conjuring my own quaint realities
where realities match quicksilver dreams that shapeand reshape themselves however I fancy them; that I
would be free of the shackles of meaning or the ghosts
of language as their intolerable gaolers in dungeonswhere there are no keys nor clanging cell doors to open;
that I would have all the sunrises and all the sunsets
under my control, and all the days of my life kept neatlyfolded in drawers I could open and reopen for change
when I itch from sticky underwear and not have to curse
the padlocked building laundromat; that I would be freeat last to work at a burgeoning poem or a canvas whenever
I start one and not be constipated to leave it unfinished
because days would not be long enough, word processorsnot fast enough for my careening thoughts that must see
their tail and catch it while running to fill all empty vases
of lives and loves as meaning of what meanings wouldhave been if my life meant anything at all. But does it?
Paint your paradise, I am told, and in you go. But I can’t.
---Albert B. Casuga
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