By Fred Moten
The Little Edges is a suite of poems that extends poet Fred Moten's experiments in what he calls "shaped prose"—a approach of arranging prose in rhythmic blocks, or occasionally shards, within the curiosity of audio-visual patterning. formed prose is a sort that works the "little edges" of lyric and discourse, and radiates out into the distance among them. As occasional items, the various poems within the ebook are the results of a request or fee to remark upon a piece of artwork, or to memorialize a specific second or individual. In Moten's poems, the problem and effort of a novel occasion or individual are remodeled through their front into the social house that they, in flip, remodel.
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Sample text
I sat and waited for you to leave. Ain’t I gon’ see you no more? How can you stay? The southern question of travel makes a joyful noise and moves slowly in awareness. Now we can speculate on the relay of our common activity, make a circle round our errant roots. Dancing is what we make of falling. Music is what we make of music’s absence, the real presence making music underneath. I’m exhausted so my soul is rested. | 23 Ralph Lemon was born in Alternative, Mississippi. Like many alternatives of Mississippi he was schooled in a chain of monastic launchpads, reading underconceptual repair, making arrangements and the theory of repercussion.
The fremde, friend, is an ordinary fray. you the from thing. shake your grove thing till we’re reunited at the angels’ library. an annual fade announced off fenian fenelonian fanonian tranche but also that flange and quequenian la as a rainbow of saints. my legacy is elegant but found. aw, just appreciate/the little things I do. the unusual threads and thrends are like doves. are you every day and I really do love you every day for a long time in another tongue? curving is expecting you and we been studying the city for a long time in our way of walking away with the cutaway chute and coat and chassis by hand.
Rhythm sections smuggle, generally, as part of their duties. they’re domestic in a foreign sense and if you don’t believe me ask susie ibarra. it’s all love, as you know. what they don’t forbid they overlook, which is worse, as you know you know. but one never knows do one. all one can do is take care of the one who keep one’s time off, fold out in the water. | 51 spanish tinge no. 1. like maroon speed and iberian note blacking on the loosaphone, when ferdinand was thinking of expansion, wondering where the surplus would come from, wondering what the surplus was, wary as all his cups began to fade, the theory of itinerant note blacking and line worrying was celebrating a thousand years of bursting from the writing of its practice like a star.