L A U R A   M O R I A R T Y
______________________________

from A TONALIST

 

3. (Dis)solution

 

Let's talk about the sky
The triumph of night
In the form of a mask
A muralist of the bruised
Body trembles along the strings of
Dissolution framed as
Appearance reappears
I am you he claims
Behind rows of fruit
The street beats like my heart
But you don't believe me
You simply don't
Though the spectrum
Indigo as for example
An experience of color like ink
Writing absorbed by writing
Colorlessly

Let's talk about the sky
These two elements together but
Which two finally air?
Water and sound or light?
Transit horizon edged and overlaid
With storm sun or head

Lights of a dead thing dizzy
Background falls away
Born down with continuing
Continues also with cars
Horizons move in and out
Another progression occurs
On the side that you are on

A body beats like a street
As one who does not
Find himself on a side
Trampled because driven
Stiff because dead
Coming at you like night
Cut edge of spring
Grasses or flowering now or later
The white screen remains
Sounded but visible
Let's talk about
He explains
His presence with the sky

A piece of it torn out with mountains attached and pasted into a letter. We regard changing light together in the afternoon. We identify the changes as what we mean when we speak of one whose work is filled with light. We wonder together if we are A Tonalist, taking care not to define it or ourselves in or out of existence, though we know we exist. “It isn't pretty,” you say, motioning toward your cane when we speak of who we are right now in words and gestures and an intuitive exchange of shared history. Words accumulate later on a page, many of them not having been spoken at the time of their speaking. You point to your head and say of the words they aren't there but I can see you thinking.

We say the word conversation with pleasure and expectation. You say “They are doing what they have to do” about everybody. You include the concept of “No fate” except in the next step taken.

The air finds its way into the sun
Onto Paris Walker's pink dust jacket
Stanzas for Iris Lezak pinkly also
Blake baking in it
And moves around the room in time
Visible on folders of paper
The pens and lenses
Rome, A Mobile Home
Assembled while dying
A portable universe
In retrospect alive with death

Sol justitiae
The crushing strength of a body
On a rock intoning in beefy darkness
Its impervious gesture”

[Estrin, Rome again]

The clouds molest me
In the baroque dark
Furniture lit from inside
Illuminated by form and by
Recognitions of form as
We live by each other

You can't argue with the sky
Not apocalypse but morning fog
Low upon and obscuring the usual
Sun as we wait for it to come up
For the war to begin
And the world to end

When the light falls on the floor
Goya's light on Goya's dog
Sinks into frames of memory
Suggested but not seen and then seen

We go back to the clouds
Something printed in Spanish
Cursive or again red
Penmanship or the torn edge
Of a letter (carta histórica)
A portrait of one reading
A series of maps and animals
Something unbelievably green
Obelisk or cenotaph
A final noun surrounded

A Tonalist like yourself might object to a strategy that transparently fails to be opaque when density is so much what we have sought in our speaking. The hidden views are the ones we should expose. Untitled columns shimmer in my head. I lived in that thoughtful palace among pillars white as Piazzoni's moon

The clouds again threaten I think in Spanish. Their longing for repetition and confidence is the one being satisfied now. The betrayal will be later. Clouds and mildness are the context for this conversation. This cold doesn't confuse me. It's spring.

I come over and we talk about the sky.

 

 

 [ see also ]
Laura Moriarty's  A Tonalist Thinking

 

back to issue two

 

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