Poetry
three
Ravedeath
Pendants of the puddle, sky shards
form an indetectable breeze and under branch
mingle here, with the sounds of children’s
recess which are, if not eternal, then global.
This dangerous windowsill art isn’t unstudied.
Pinnacles are still applicable, day to day.
Blood is in the dirt, elsewhere, from snowballs
not thrown yet. Old Tim Hecker stuff, incense
and a lanky cat going on. I really feel that
towering detritus is amazing in this time,
walking streets, always off the peripheries, not
preventing any light. Sounds in kitchens touch
want but not to have me in them. How I grew up,
time no emergency, but this was irreconcilable even
then. Those who think the world is as they live it
only say so reactively. They are deceived
by mass media’s villification of nervous systems
which reclassifies responsiveness as reactionary
violence.
excerpts from Freud
Not withstanding
whimpers (all mine)
copiously
see, to the sky.
men-like
took a bright-
rock shit
a conservative night
exercise
nil caution
basking at a slant
seeing stars
you kayak by
ta familiar, projectile
through terraced scape
the mountain
shaping river between
this lake and largest fresh
water east of Mississippi
takes on curves of
pregnant supine woman
and sky of french kisses
in dappled light
seed wasted
floats by
for a pleasant thought
forever
to sky (mama)
no criticism
shear rocks shear
(privacy)
to the 1000
bulge in their facility
sex offenders
min. security
bunked by 10’s
No rehabilitation
against (colder now)
tips (blood track) blue
only Arthur
or Artemis
can find me
play cribbage
none of this
uninvented
but does stand
here, me, there,
all edges
quaking tips
often recurring trees
I
ejaculate
beneath the elders
erotic rope-seeds
brilliant don’t
sink into the water-
rocks
you kayak by
just now
this place these
edges escape my heart
which comes
as water-locked
white crest
replete latched around
hairs back of hand
shit in rock bank
mind on (the) Noah that once
seemed less remote
my mind on men
as me as a centaur
Queen
most of all on
only black stockings
but these stories
made edges
that in human shape
still fold like shutters
there these leaves (don’t)
dream and Freud
clops shirtless
over rocks
in green jacket red flannel lined
up from underworld
to role a cigarette
lying (hard)
in my, uh-oh
he, it is hard,
type-cast to die
the other way
you kayak by
branches at the heights of the trees fold across
(soft) having considered the pursuit
come in of pleasure
for a crash landing here
burns (hard) soft
pines aspens birch
between the pleasure rocks,
nothing to say,
and seed fingers groove,
words
one fine day, words, leaves
• • •
Freud’s compound patent thesis
collates the entirety of water-
skimmers
he retraces his clambering rocks
in a black cape
panting to deliver the news
(red-trim, gentle)
• • •
see-saw
with no
pivoting
just
jointly
impaled
through stomach
a
crucial moment
The rainbow-throes
are accesible
any time
from any position.
• • •
he is deeper in
getting hot
not without
totally unmystical
horse pace
(though hotter and hotter)
the grail is lost
to the interruption
of the perfect marriage
(within me)
of wild hooves
and steady-so-far machine
Attention Deficit
In the face of systemic collapse I’m still standing here is a stupid ontological observation.
Do you know the leaves are falling off the planet and being replaced by the existence of bings?
Here and there, a great feline of microclimates shedding, marble eyeballs emulcifying, hurtling.
Artists all arrive where Pluto’s orbit exits the Milkyway, and some just get a face full of leaves of Balthus.
The intimacy of the voice is its slippage, the excess between. What is marred in lube and desire.
It is all to say keep singing, though airborne nonfervor, our mother is rabid in our dream, keep singing.
Speaking of slippage, methodological nonintent, embrace polysemetic (or) hypercomplexity emotionally.
To dissolve hierarchies isn’t activism, it describes Being where human communicability faces dissolution.
We must be careful counting on what powers we have, for those are rapidly expropriated.
It isn’t in bad taste or form to sound like the music, we look out for them, only impossible.
Walking on cement, then suddenly the sinuous music of poetry, but it is not music at all in that sense.
It comes of music of pinpricks in the calf muscles after orgasming on my knees. You’ll stop loving me.
You wont stop loving me but it wont be love in that sense at all. I want In the Realm of the Senses.
Contributor
Tenaya Nasser-FrederickTenaya Nasser-Frederick lives and works in Brooklyn, NY. His first chapbook Penumbra Highway is out from Gas Meter Books(2018).