Fred Moten

a river is studio agitation n through one window,

aloft in rock bottom’s soft support and

     rumble, a room, a cell alight in the way the

          walls walk off in juba’d pat and tiling,

   the pattern on the river floor all absolute

and indiscernible unless you walk it, in the

       river, as the river, as all this rotary soar of

the dammed and held, sous vide in second

   linearity, parading in this tuba’d lining

out of the basic line all and against itself

  in black and blue switchback and beatrice

         smiling seeing all our little differences

together in the venereal collection area’s

      serial eddying of how we taste and feel,

    inseparably. there’s just so many ways to

       keep going along the way. the miraculous

   influence is delta’d in floridian branch or

mangrove double silt, coahoma co. moaning

    or swung oklahoming—a gap band or a gap in

   nature kinda sounding, drowning, burning, this

   continually caribbean being on fire of the

      river, from river to river on canal and torn

         to another bleeding place we from in our

   lenape shift, our delaware gap band, sending

       geography through a sycoractic horn chart

    of the natural city in and out of its broken

         window, cadence still cruising mobile studio.

unnamed, and making waves, and making ways

is what it sounds like: lining, tiling, moaning,

    smiling, drowning, bleeding, burning, seeing,

       sending, sounding just like joseph daley,

thurman barker, dave holland, and sam rivers.