I understand what it is to do a white painting.
Just solid white.
The theory behind it is
That you have set up the canvas
And anything is possible on it.
The canvas is primed
For whatever will be drawn on it.
It is the same as a blank page to me.
Yet, I can stare at it
And get the same
Of not having to put the subconscious torture
Of another word on the white paper.
Yet, torture I must
For a writer has only one canvas—
A blank page.
A painter has as many as there are colors.
Solid white, the painter makes it
So they can put to work and make something
Me, the soothing effect of the blank page
On my screen
I cannot communicate
Except to write a poem about it.
It’s been done several score dozen of times.
The mind whispers.
The frankness of it all
Is that I have written works…
I have prophesied.
When Jonah’s failed
We called it repentance.
When mine failed
I called it a hallelujah.
Mind me when I say that the blank page here
Is cathartic because it can be anything.
How do I know there is a God?
Because there is.