For Fred Moten
I.
What worlds end
So we can create
Sustain scarcity
A death of each
And each recall
The sea a rhythm
Of this place pul-
sing under what
We dream emer-
gent in the ones
We name emer-
gent in what we
Cannot possess
These children of
Slaves won’t colla-
borate with history
Since history
Won’t corroborate
This sense of ruins
Revealing you
Dreams me up
Not the other way
Around the sun
Clicks off and on
Abandons us sound-
lessly to events.
II.
Death will come
For us it will call
Itself scarcity
The wind in the
Trees and meadows
Recall ruins re-
verse a process a
Social process if
We will be on time
And dust collects
What dust collects
On the things we
Built unsustainable
Like love unifies
The ego it is a lan-
guage but I don’t know
What it says shit
Builds like sound
Concrete in my head
No longer dreamt
Nor will waking
Discover me a memory
Trace a set of planes
Traversing blue
Ghosts of a geometry
Your horns blow.
For Adam Pendleton
I.
These shiny
Stone-like cubes
Obsidian of what
They speak an
Alphabet cannot
Be said it is
Too much just
To feel them
To have to
Form words
Before pictures
Is a problem
Of history but
You know this
The glissando
In our politics
Of attention gliding
Cannot know
Us or call
Us back to
Kill whitey
So easily as
Antagonism art
Thrown into
History and
Not wanting
To be
Thrown into
An archive
Becomes responsible
For opacity
Assume this
Power not
Quite one
Making nothing
In particularity
It waits the thing
Itself to know
Ourselves.
II.
Least wish
For tankers subdivisions
Of labor control
No context yet exists
For this
It is the wind again
Blows a national
We grieving
Strategies substance
Grown black again
System growing blacker
Unclarified by who
The methexis
Of the tenebrous
Where we see only dust
Justice a line ran
Through it
Crossed it out
Preserved a content
Those below just below
The cut
Hung like the blues enacts
Hung like black frames
Fade to black
On a background
Of black paint
Mirrors inside them
Make history pop
With what we are not
And letters unfix.
