Fred Moten

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 (inland curving bridge, endless waterways) dragged the repeating public folds into the open work we made, unembarrassed with children, out of the expanse’s closed walls from Béère’s market to black saturday, loved by old hands, the breaking law of movement of farms like wagon wheels to christopher street and dim lights on the edge of abeokuta, mississippi, damn. “we may not have a home to call our own but we’re gonna make it”

for a long time, the lotion stigma swirled on the man who clothes me with a broken world. I came when they called me. that cotton rubbed me the wrong way all the way inside over the course of time. way before cotton sewn into the coat of the one who clothes me. before I started clothing them with paper. before cotton sewn into their coats they curled up on flat boats all the way back up the country. the beaded strips of leather and cotton made me come to myself when he called me and wrote me on the one who clothes me. pour some water on me. make coming matter cut and twirl on me. the law of emulsion is always broke on me. somebody pour some beautiful jute on me. let her blow some horn on me. the man who clothes me in my skin is gonna write on me. your writing moves to stop on me. someday they’re gonna curve this on a pearl on me but now it’s time to go and I can’t wait to get up out from here. it’s simple to stay furled where you can’t live. for a long, long time I’ve been wearing this other planet like a scar on me.

all down on perdido street, from san juan to inglewood, up on that bridge, up where the soul trees grow by soul, dance to fantastic information while we kick off the modern world. the whistle sounded good like a kiss on a train. a track below us in the cabinet in the tunnel under the water. a steady boom to lift us out. nobody lived, not without digging, but he wore that ivory waistcoat and we loved to see that shit. I love my people too much to be around them at school. I slip underneath the cinema tree, move myself in half, dance to fray, write a paper on the salve trade. the big fat women and the heliocopters they bring with them to watch them and their kids. whole long- ass sheets of improper names. we refused to act right at the hospital and I was right with ’em. at the wrong time I started reading my paper and ash flew from their big ol’ legs. we rub down and dance everyday at the broke clinic and I was right with ’em. johnny griffin turns to this long burning to pray for fire. make a song about the sky they stole. if you ain’t gon’ get down then what you come here for? what they bring your ass up in here for if you ain’t gon’ tear shit up? if you wasn’t just as happy to be here as you was to come then what you gon’ do, simple motherfucker? the salve trade

1. 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. the station agent intimate with tight spaces refuse to hit back or be carried. later her name was danielle goldman and his serene highness thierry henry. her head is cut off by a shadow of primary folded streets she harrass with enjoyment. later her name is piet. she come from cubie with the whole club economy in her hand. when she reclines her head is lifted by a turn, someone’s arm they left there. later her name was elouise. watch her move into the story she still move 2. and tear shit up. always a pleasure the banned deep brown of faces in the otherwise whack. the cruel disposed won’t stand still. apparatus tear shit up and always. you see they can’t get off when they get off. some stateless folks spurn the pleasure they are driven to be and strive against. man, hit me again.