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”
Fred Moten, “tonk and waterfront, black line fade, unbuilt hotel, that union hall” from hughson’s tavern. Copyright © 2008 by Fred Moten. Reprinted by permission of Leon Works.
Source: hughson’s tavern (Leon Works, 2008)