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mission
pah’nuh
black things
black change’a
wiship

and dealing with shit around the corner
under the angle sing
like a buried library

black chain
fuse
black string
n
d mention

ill speech and horn, fascinated
observers either somebody from Greenville
or New Haven in white, blacks out

black hole

2
                     I knew

         never touch ’em at the checkout

         but here not look where you going?
         catch myself on erect gray jersey
         and pure glare of the checkout but
         scratch! a blue nail in my palm like
         bloom and strife of almost a and thangs
         she let me violate, she let me regulate

         tomorrow I’m cyrillic and she my

black square

way up in the corner of the room, like endora. endora from jamaica, blue 9, blue n

Fred Moten was born and raised in Las Vegas and now lives in New York City where he is assistant professor of Performance Studies in the Tisch School of the Arts, New York University. He has published poetry in Grand Street, Lift, and has poems forthcoming in Callaloo. His first chapbook, Arkansas, was published last year by Pressed Wafer Press.

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