Monday, May 23, 2011



“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 limitless
expanse 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 hell
not 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 shape
and 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 dungeons
where 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 neatly
folded 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 free
at 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 processors
not 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 would
have 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

Painting above is by Gustave Corbet

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