Her territory sunflower, insurgent floor time in real time in the field museum bertha lee and her lyric ways and her urban plan. up and down the regular highway and every two-tone station, passing through to cure, for preservation to unfold it all away, she put the new thing
in the open cell, one more time about the theory of who we are.
In the names away in blocks with double names to interrupt and gather, kept dancing in tight circles between break and secret, vaulted with records in our basement, where the long-haired hippies and afro-blacks all get together across the tracks and they party, everybody sown like grain and touched in stride.
Now the cold new reckoning is tired and you've been waiting for a preferential song. the multiplex should be in the frame like bodies in a house way back in the woods, fled in suspended projects like the real thing, posed for the midnight trill. essential shtetl of the world stage, born way before you
was born, move the administered word by breathing, to hand
beautiful edge around.
Written by: Brandon López, Fred Moten, Gerald Cleaver
