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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





excerpts from Freud

             Not withstanding
             whimpers (all mine)
             see, to the sky.
             took a bright-
             rock shit
             a conservative night
             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

to sky (mama)
no criticism
shear rocks shear

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




 but does stand
 here, me, there,
 all edges
 quaking tips
 often recurring trees
         beneath the elders
 erotic rope-seeds
 brilliant don’t
     sink into the water-
               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




             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,

one fine day, words, leaves


•            •            •


Freud’s compound patent thesis
   collates the entirety of water-

he retraces his clambering rocks
          in a black cape
panting to deliver the news
                    (red-trim, gentle)


•            •            •


                          with no
                          through stomach
                          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.



Tenaya Nasser-Frederick

Tenaya Nasser-Frederick lives and works in Brooklyn, NY. His first chapbook Penumbra Highway is out from Gas Meter Books(2018).


The Brooklyn Rail

FEB 2019

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