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Object 7
Post-apocalyptic and diabolical. Comforting and terrifying. Tilghman Goldsborough is reporting live on the minuscule and maximal repercussions of the manmade. This poet is seeing far. So far, so fire. —Marwa Helal
Every object is a vagabondish clue to the revelation of the Unnoticed; together they form a network of intelligences ever unintelligible, stabbed through with the alcohol of simplicity, their letters assigned to them by uncharted immediacy. Why is not everything Object 7? Motherless, unafraid of choice (because eluded by it), cursed in the Room of poetics, prosaics, silence, violence…who cares. All undoings of the Facts. And I would prefer not to live in a world without Goldsborough's de-signs…for I would never be able to find the crescendo of this dementia and ride it back to what I would know of a Selph, a tender adept of coloration. Such is the objective light. —Carlos Lara
Goldsborough's poetics sway in Black cosmic perpetuity from a hammock strung between shorthand and roastmaster. —Adjua Gargi Nzinga Greaves
Abject. object. Promise. A small fire in Berlin. Aimless walks through the suburbs of Virginia. Pyramids in Yucatan. A murder seen on the internet. A tik tok dance. A riot. Brand loyalty. Freedom Staring at the ceiling. A pandemic shaping the world. Poetry. A ritual to self destruction. I am listening to a stock broker eagerly pin his financial health to the US conducting an air raid on China in Williamsburg. Often said but seldom true. Poetry. Object. Poet. Man. Searching black Berlin. Jack and Jill Virginia nightmares of respectability. A virtuosic soundscape conjured from the will of singular object. Poet. Commodified servant of the middle class. Black. Commodified racial (under) class. Black poet(ry). Commodified talented 10th? Promise. Never And what are the objects we remember commit and occumulate like bodies but our Promise to resist. To write. To be poets. — Mohammed Zenia
Every object is a vagabondish clue to the revelation of the Unnoticed; together they form a network of intelligences ever unintelligible, stabbed through with the alcohol of simplicity, their letters assigned to them by uncharted immediacy. Why is not everything Object 7? Motherless, unafraid of choice (because eluded by it), cursed in the Room of poetics, prosaics, silence, violence…who cares. All undoings of the Facts. And I would prefer not to live in a world without Goldsborough's de-signs…for I would never be able to find the crescendo of this dementia and ride it back to what I would know of a Selph, a tender adept of coloration. Such is the objective light. —Carlos Lara
Goldsborough's poetics sway in Black cosmic perpetuity from a hammock strung between shorthand and roastmaster. —Adjua Gargi Nzinga Greaves
Abject. object. Promise. A small fire in Berlin. Aimless walks through the suburbs of Virginia. Pyramids in Yucatan. A murder seen on the internet. A tik tok dance. A riot. Brand loyalty. Freedom Staring at the ceiling. A pandemic shaping the world. Poetry. A ritual to self destruction. I am listening to a stock broker eagerly pin his financial health to the US conducting an air raid on China in Williamsburg. Often said but seldom true. Poetry. Object. Poet. Man. Searching black Berlin. Jack and Jill Virginia nightmares of respectability. A virtuosic soundscape conjured from the will of singular object. Poet. Commodified servant of the middle class. Black. Commodified racial (under) class. Black poet(ry). Commodified talented 10th? Promise. Never And what are the objects we remember commit and occumulate like bodies but our Promise to resist. To write. To be poets. — Mohammed Zenia
104 pages, Paperback
Published June 15, 2024
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