Fred Moten


Fugitivity is immanent to the thing but is manifest transversally


between the object and the floor
the couch is a pedestal and a shawl
and just woke up her hair. she never

ever leaves the floating other house

but through some stories they call.

later that was her name the collaborator

of things shine in the picture. hand

flew off her early hair though held

by flowers. later her name was grete.

her hair feels angles by flowers that

before her name was shori the
penetrator in the history of no décor.

tonk and waterfront, black line fade, unbuilt hotel, that union hall

the archive dance of

frank gehry crumples

to the sky its finger
and walking bridge.
the mummers disappear
my city sounds.
dance crumples to

the archive sky of fela.

the breaking public crush
a lot and pilgrimage from

greenville (to farmville) to ruleville up the road.
let me place Mrs. Hamer, who

crush like an architect outside, like

broke composition, in parchman.
lula and helena strayed
to the dock, founded the hiding

republic of the westside trucks to come