I want to paint like Richter, pull all the tangled
gestures of paint marks into a mounded surface
like tidying a beach. Tug sea weedy strokes into
a united mass of colour and nuance and stature.
I want the canvas to be a heard muteness, a chamber
where a silence is curved and accented by an
underneath-ed massive speaking of tongues.
When he goes all horizontal, kind of wild
western, strokes like a fumed motorcycle
muffler speeding through, I want to ride that
slash and slush with him, the gladsome giddy-
up moment, like when a wave tumbles
somersaulting into the solid land mass. Cliffs
standing firmly, overseeing the rush in like
an older brother. The gasp of the tide before it
pulls back in a frothy, frisky change of mind,
like when a View-Master rotates the slide. I
want to pull the paint down like a velvety
curtain on a stage, a feat of accomplishment at
the play’s end, feel it thud like an executioner’s
axe. I want the texture to be the ridged limestone
that formed my island, the exploded volcano
a paint brush gone off all known boundaries.
I want the vertical squeegee strokes to be
like a rainstorm offshore, coming into to patter
everything as if angels walked there with a vision
of a whole world, like when all edges are united.