Fred Moten | resistances, impromptu

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Emilio Prini | Senza titolo (Untitled), 1968

 

 

resistances, impromptu

with Tania Bruguera and Fernando Zalamea’n’em

 

When we reverse engineered the movement, we found the moment it became the movement was the moment we stopped moving. A body politic for newly born political bodies in the drawing of one last breath by one. Pear trees full of rivers all tied up in sugar ditch; pulpit gutbucket molasses still in still, strong and good, but gone. I was born in friction, alabama. I voted for drone chalkline. I died in fraction, california. I remain a posthumous citizen.

So, resist the reduction of non-meaning. Resistance in poetry is how we feel. Grammar striding to divine this weave in not quite seeing. When he says, “to resist is to become a conductive thread,” that’s what she throws: signal’s disruption of itself and code in the common feel. What if we could slice lived experience off the bone? Failure is life, which death achieves so we can five or six mo’gin. There’s a black poetics of integrative biology, baby, and it bends like wine. Way too good to be a little bit above what the people say. The people say my mama pinned a rose on me.

We still don’t know many choruses gonsalves gon’ take. Give in take is scale off scale: pedagogical riots, transitional institutions, experimental bands. But why does the problem of scale always swerve into the problem of audience? Why does the need for institutions always show up as the problem of scale? Why is showing up always scaling up them lonely streets? What if what the people suffer ain’t large absence but small noncommunicabilities? Let’s say, with regard to poetry, or music, that small communicability is sound. Then find one and find another one feel good next to it. Put one next to another and sound is beside itself. Line that verge out animal, mantic, anamathematical bruise, subdermal popularity.

Yeah, they are liquidating the national endowment for the arts and scientists need to freak out about that. It’s like a breeze holed up in greenblatt’s basement. Will the class break up into small, self-taught classes? Spacetime is just an echo of mutual aid. To renew our habits of assembly we need renewable assemblies, like langston’s multiverse. Welcome to cuernavaca. Welcome to callahan. Indirectly act to welcome. They can’t stop us; they can’t even hope to contain us. People in the public better find someplace sufficient for poetry in the market’s outer depths. Better make it plain as noplace.

A divan with a double s and a bridge with a blur and a single stanchion. A calatravan bird where bird play jimmy lyons playing bird. A double-fly airborne science opaque in motion, motion all but still, till linda come sing her eyeball off the man. Her method against method is a baby bjorn, gray-blue in a blue-black dive. I can’t not get next to you, she says, in rubbed breath, whose expiration politics demands, to which the arts and sciences aspire, as

resistances.

 

 

FROM
FRED MOTEN | all that beauty
LETTER MACHINE EDITIONS 2019

 

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