Self-Portrait in the Dark
Cy Twombly, Night Watch
We have been out in the woods again, always, it seems, searching for the future. Twombly in a helmet with a little light on the front. The tree-tips black scribbles against a blacker ground. Ahead, the path is coal-colored, cold as a cave and about as useless. Whatever is on the end of my leash is tugging me into the brush. The growls stop, the full moon a mic-drop in the darkness. The stage is set, brighter self, time to walk out alone.
Meditation on Communication
Cy Twombly, Untitled
Dear Cy – And why wouldn’t I go like language to where I am not blue scrim of sky and sea calligraphy of memory cataract not illustration but realization rhythm wave cascade— Have you seen the now, Cy? You would not could never— The sky sun scorched fire & more fire black as a bruise but not as soft I think even oceans are burning or melting everything molting from what it was to what it is going to be— tonight my son asked what my weird super power would be and I said to walk into a painting so why wouldn’t I? Cy? into it/you go among the blue trace of the almost of my name murmur of the visual— you have to me written so why how could I not become the blue sky-skinned sea skinned, my body a choir of bird-song ready to light up with the glowing wheel of alteration so that we may see far enough ahead to go to go that blue it is beyond blue the way this life is beyond all things coming directly toward so why not among the cataracts lit by the light of not language but its shadow its shell as though it too is burned through to bone— go? I have driven through flame this is not metaphor and yet it is language or at least its shell its scorch mark marked look at my skin, Cy, I am as blue as the iris behind Death’s black patch blue as the sky when it changes to sea go? I am already there
MEDITATION ON REVISION
Cy Twombly, Mars and the Artist
All abstraction is a form of incompletion— all incompletion an
exit toemptiness. Nothing can be said enough times.All writing is a form of silence— all painting an access toblindness— To those who ask, god reveals himself throughabsence, to those who do nothe stays silent. Still, we hear the redbleed blue.
MEDITATION ON TRANSMUTATION
Cy Twombly, Untitled (Hang iambics)
To circulate there: to master the descent into disorder— (this is no time for poetry) to dissolve into a map of your own making— (hang iambics) an internal orbit of excess— orphic and oceanic all at once, (
this is notime for poetry) both vortex and veil: chaos + pattern = the possible