{"product_id":"somebody-else-sold-the-world-isbn-9780143136446","title":"Somebody Else Sold the World","description":"\u003cb\u003eA resonant new collection on love and persistence from the author of \u003ci\u003eThe Big Smoke\u003c\/i\u003e, a finalist for the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe poems in Adrian Matejka's newest and fifth collection, \u003ci\u003eSomebody Else Sold the World\u003c\/i\u003e, meditate on the ways we exist in an uncontrollable world: in love and its aftermaths, in families that divide themselves, in protest-filled streets, in isolation as routines become obsolete because of lockdown orders and curfews. \u003ci\u003eSomebody Else\u003c\/i\u003e uses past and future touchstones like pop songs, love notes, and imaginary gossip to illuminate those moments of splendor that persist even in exhaustion. These poems show that there are many possibilities of brightness and hope, even in the middle of pandemics and revolutions.\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eSomebody Else Sold the World\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“With tenderness and intimacy, \u003ci\u003eSomebody Else Sold the World\u003c\/i\u003e  highlights what has been lost, what might be recoverable, in these 'wrong-noted' days . . . what Matejka gets fascinatingly right is how the speakers in \u003ci\u003eSomebody Else Sold the World\u003c\/i\u003e balance anxieties of care against nostalgia and just how aware they are of feeling lost within the present, of being out-of-time . . . Matejka’s command of melody and prosody is striking, especially in combination with the offbeat moments of humor and surrealism that strengthen the collection. What results is a kind of song that captures both lightness and heaviness of the current moment. Refusing the appeal of an uncomplicated cathartic release, \u003ci\u003eSomebody Else\u003c\/i\u003e insists on vulnerability, on admitting what has gone wrong, while acknowledging the difficulties in wrestling with 'what comes after” the selling of our world.'” \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePoetry Foundation\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Soulful, sonorous poems about romance, fatherhood, and other forms of intimacy. Matejka sings a blues of loss and longing but resists despair as a foregone conclusion, identifying potential for harmony even in sources of harm.” \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Matejka’s up-to-the-minute collection, his fifth, turns to poetry as a way to process the sometimes surreal disruptions of the pandemic, when people wore “Different \/ kinds of masks for being \u0026amp; breathing.”” \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Matejka’s greatest strength in \u003ci\u003eSomebody Else Sold the World\u003c\/i\u003e is his ability to cut tragedies and instances of violence with simple, momentary pleasures . . . The work plays like a ballad written in the wake of insurmountable loss—both harrowing and dizzying—and yet it remains utterly grateful . . . The result is a stunning reimagination of musical capacity that Matejka uses to navigate love, heartache, and uncertainty . . . Even more undeniable than the collection’s timely subject matter is Matejka’s formal talent, which has only grown over the years. The imagery he cultivates and nourishes alone should serve as reason enough to read the book.” \u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eRain Taxi Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No poem exists in a vacuum, just like no person does. This collection uses elements like love notes, gossip, even pop music to illuminate the ways we remain connected, even amidst revolution and isolation.” \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eGood Housekeeping\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Matejka delivers a cathartic ode to a tumultuous year of disease and unrest in his thoughtful latest. Vignettes of looming disease and nature’s indifference to human suffering are rendered in their full complexity . . . Matejka masterfully combines grief and hope . . . music serves as an impetus for these accomplished pages that subtly convey the whiplash of everyday life.” \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Infusing music, bold images, various poetic forms, and modern events, Matejka induces the reader to perceive current events through the eyes and ears of a poet . . . The titular series of poems takes on politics and the pandemic, using music to inspire readers to remember and reflect . . . Matejka demonstrates a mastery of poetic form, using line breaks, white space, end lines, and imagery to make poems match the moment and the music that inspired them and to capture our shared experiences.” \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “With blazing virtuosity, Matejka returns in prime form for a wildly syncopated romp—ballasted with earth and music and bombast—serving all the right notes. These poems slyly sit at the intersection of revelation and delicious formal audacity, ‘magnificent \u0026amp; stark inside the addendum, like a big breath exhaled through the best part of a question mark.’” \u003cb\u003e—Aimee Nezhukumatathil, author of \u003ci\u003eWorld of Wonders\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e “Adrian Matejka's muscular and mellifluous soundtrack is a savvy directive that reminds us that even chaos has a rhythm you can dance to. With a masterful ear for lyric and eye for the detail that jolts and surprises, the poet adroitly reintroduces us to a world where a simple breath was never too much—here are reminders of love’s fractured mechanics, the heart-rending frailty of fathers, that twinge in the belly at the first downbeat of \u003ci\u003ethat song\u003c\/i\u003e. Matejka even manages to dismantle that wee icon of violence—the bullet—until it is bared of its sin, its ability to end every story it enters. In \u003ci\u003eSomebody Else Sold the World,\u003c\/i\u003e we revisit the life we were living before the life we’re scarcely living now.” \u003cb\u003e—Patricia Smith, author of \u003ci\u003eIncendiary Art\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eAdrian Matejka\u003c\/b\u003e's most recent collection of poetry is \u003ci\u003eSomebody Else Sold the World\u003c\/i\u003e. His other books are \u003ci\u003eMap to the Stars\u003c\/i\u003e; \u003ci\u003eThe Big Smoke\u003c\/i\u003e, which was the winner of the Anisfield-Wolf Book Award and a finalist for both the National Book Award and Pulitzer Prize; \u003ci\u003eMixology\u003c\/i\u003e, which was selected for the National Poetry Series; \u003ci\u003eThe Devil's Garden\u003c\/i\u003e (Alice James Books, 2003), winner of the New York \/ New England Award; and \u003ci\u003eLast On His Feet: Jack Johnson and the Battle of the Century\u003c\/i\u003e, a graphic portrait of the boxing legend Jack Johnson. Among Matejka's other honors are fellowships from the Academy of American Poets, the Guggenheim Foundation, the Lannan Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, and United States Artists. He served as Poet Laureate of the state of Indiana in 2018-19 and now lives in Chicago, where he is Editor of \u003ci\u003ePoetry\u003c\/i\u003e Magazine.\u003cp\u003esomebody else sold the world\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; before I knew it, the violet sky\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eflagged with the sun’s violent\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edemands: for magnolias in bloom,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003enatural light, any place magnanimous\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewithout locks or doors. Different\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ekinds of masks for being \u0026amp; breathing.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe antagonists with their vanity tans\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; usual mischiefs whistled jingles\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eabout liberties \u0026amp; wars as we buttoned\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eup our confinement \u0026amp; dreamed about\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehugging. We talked about was \u0026amp;  when\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhen we missed our friends \u0026amp; dentist\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eappointments. Molars dropped out\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewithout breathable air. Hair forgot\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eits natural colors without testimonies\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eat intersections \u0026amp; barbeques. Words\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elost their family recipes. Friends lost\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etheir words, then lost their parents.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA masked few found love somehow\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein the gerrymandered grocery lines\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; farmers’ fields upturned with unsellable\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003evegetables. So the antagonists cornered\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe curfews, manufacturing arguments\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewith guns at the ready like henchmen.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe air around us was so ripe, it might\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehave broken in half if we could touch it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eon the b side\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe song ends because the beginning\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edoesn’t jump-start again: red smudge\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof a mouth, lipstick all over the place\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elike the afterthought a comet leaves\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eon its way out. What makes this moment\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eunfold like a woman raising herself\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eup from an unfamiliar couch? Honky-\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etonk in the blue honey of an eyeball?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePerfume \u0026amp; its circus of heart-shaped\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eintroductions? Innuendo always\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003estumbles in the lead-in, like a man\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003epawing around for his busted spectacles\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eafter waking up in the world’s stubble.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHand over hand he paws, through\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eguitar picks \u0026amp; record changers, busted\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003egut strings \u0026amp; clothing strung with\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efamiliar vibrato outside the window.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe could be Bowie himself, exhausted\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eby skyscrapers cracked in the aftermath\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof a smile. His eyes aren’t different\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecolors. They just have different focuses.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe could be a whole lot of nothing:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethinning hair, low change in his right\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003epocket jingling down the stairs.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe was given all of it \u0026amp; stole the best\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof the rest. Even without glasses,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehe sees her nearly dressed: 33 1⁄3 rpm\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003estacticky in the lead-out’s harmony.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eit was over way back then\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebecause of want \u0026amp; tumble?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBecause of word crumbles\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein the kitchen’s halogen?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNo. Separate bedrooms\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efor years \u0026amp; here I am again:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eup top in the kitchen light,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eout front with a burnished\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003estove \u0026amp; the microwave’s\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eimmaculate readouts. Up\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehere, my crosscut hands\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003egreet the butter knife before\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe big spread. What I want\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003enow is a better ideogram\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efor instead after the skull\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; crossbones on the pill bottles.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhat I want is a bucket for\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emy panics \u0026amp; justifications.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy coddled addendums\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edowntagged on the sales table\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eeach \u0026amp; every spring. Here\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewe go with that old seasonal\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebullshit again. Earphones on\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eso your eardrums don’t get\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003epunched out near the exit.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTom Fords on, too, just\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efor the flex of it. Is it\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etoo much to ask for quiet\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eafter all my losses in this\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003einsistent chorus of renew?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIs it too much to be momentary\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein the morning grass, suede\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ekicks beaten up by the dew?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehaul\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI used to live in a sandstone house\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewrapped up in flowers. They weren’t\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etall like Neruda’s in his city next\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto the sea. My flowers quickstepped\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elike the town I walked the dog\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethrough—little magentas, roses,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esingsong rehearsals of sing-along\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eyellows \u0026amp; winking whites when\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe right breeze kicked up. Out\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein the yard, neighborly blossoms\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efalsettoed to the canopy each \u0026amp; every\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003espring. Suburb of aromatic layers,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etrimmed hedges pollenating the windows\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhile my little girl gospeled down\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe long stair of revelry. Glory be.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHer harmony bent me like a stark\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esong in the back talk. Euphonium\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ealong the length of yawning houses,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethose For Sale signs \u0026amp; empty\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewindows with timed lights. Every\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ething sang its entropy. Almost\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eeverybody grew eventually. Not by\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003erevolution but realization: nostalgia\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emade mnemonic. What else could\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI do after leaving that house other\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethan become part of the chorus?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eGlory be my aberrant attendance,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003estill trying to itemize the litany\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof sunstruck days the way\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSisyphus did, hauling his bundled\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eshipwreck up to the recycler\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efor a few copper coins \u0026amp; a smoke.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eGlory be my busted, fatherly heart.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003egymnopédies no. 1\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThat was the week it wouldn’t stop\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esnowing. That was the week five-\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efingered trees fell on houses \u0026amp; power\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elines snapped like somebody waiting\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efor payday in a snowstorm. That snow\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eweek, my little girl \u0026amp; I trudged over\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe busted branches fidgeting through\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe snow like empty digits through\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea hungry pocket. Over the termite-\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehollowed stump, squat as a flat tire,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethen up \u0026amp; over the hollow the fox dives\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003einto when we open the back door.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThat week glittered like a Christmas\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecard while we poked around for\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe best place to stand a snowman.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA pinecone-nosed one. One with\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethumb-pressed eyes to see the whole\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003epicture once things warm up.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehearing damage\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI had a trumpet shaped\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elike a downward heart\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; I played it recklessly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAll of its dented iterations\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof brass \u0026amp; bell. Three-\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003evalve marginality.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMarching band possibility\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003epointing at the muddy\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edirt. I had a double-talk\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eas slick \u0026amp; overachieving\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eas a kid trench-coated\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewith a boom box overhead\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein the rain. His socks:\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewet \u0026amp; ankle loose\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein their blueness.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eArgyle wonder caught\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eup in high school’s sloppy\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003egears, greedy for moments\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof matriculated attention.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; none of it worked—\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhen the tape deck got\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esoaked, the tape stopped\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eplaying. When the music\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003estopped, her shades\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebarked when they shut.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAs if attention itself\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emagnetized, stretched\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003earound eager reels, then\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efed itself into the machine.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eClick, click, click.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAs if my bleating pleas\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eweren’t big trumpets\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efor attention, but gentle\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehalf notes trimmed into\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efunny polyester hearts,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efuture palpitations of glory.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esomebody else sold the world\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eSo much yellow gold\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eon me like a beehive\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e—future\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEverything goes better with gold\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efor the antagonists. They gild teeth\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; toilet caps with it. They write\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003egrocery lists \u0026amp; postscripts with it\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhile the rest of us cluster around\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe jewelry shop hoping we’ll catch\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea sale before it’s Valentine’s Day\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eagain. Old traditions of huddling\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eagainst the elements learned \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eback in the butt-naked day, mewling \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eat the sky’s conditions. I’m jewelryless \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; archaic, sure, still calling love \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eby its twentieth-century name.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI’m abiding by the general rituals\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhile making all the wrong choices\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eright next to a case full of pendants\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eblinking like my future paramour’s\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eeyes. I’m still looking upward, sure,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eprayer hands folded on top of the leather\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehymnal. Every one of my busted loves\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003echaptered \u0026amp; bound with gold leaf\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; not even the stars that gold comes\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efrom could save my copper-plated\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eroutines. Future called it \u003ci\u003eastronaut status\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eATL skyline glamorous behind him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSome astronauts’ smiles look like\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003egolden cityscapes. Some astronauts\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehave gold wings \u0026amp; wedding rings,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etoo, cast from the first available cluster.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elove notes\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDo you love vague commitments?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDo you love bad news in crooning shapes?\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhole or half, tattoos mooning on\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003econjoined rib cages? Check this box \u0026amp;,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elike a breath, you’ll feel mostly bygone.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLike one of those early recordings, you’ll\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebe scratchy \u0026amp; demystified. Untranscribably\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003econfessional until the last quarter note\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eis a processional. You’ll be absolutely fine,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eflipped to the B side of this note’s high-lined\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ereferendum. Magnificent \u0026amp; stark inside\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe addendum, like a big breath exhaled\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethrough the smart part of a question mark.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehighest\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eI’m the highest in the room\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e—travis scott\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI rise up, therefore I must be like Descartes\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eif he didn’t finish all the reading. I raise up\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elike the highest Black hand in history class.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI am risen like the blood pressure of anybody\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBlack mimeographed in the chronic textbook\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof this monochromatic year. That’s infant\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emortality rate high. That’s high-top fade high.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMost everything up here hangs threadbare,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esquarely in the redline of summery excuses.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEverything else up in here, from the cop\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eapologies to the solidarity statements: a double\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etap of distraction for somebody else’s\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehigh sign. That’s unemployment high. That’s\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMachu Picchu high. What a relief hardly\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eanybody stuck around to see me on the low\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eside of the mountain. What a reprieve because\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI kept rising stealthily—past my historical\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eanxiety, way past all my inherited hearsay\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003euntil I am so high up on the shelf I eye-\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elevel alchemy. Even up here, I’m adept\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eat shrinking myself for safety. Even up here,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emy shoulders hunch like a small analogy.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Penguin Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":44862151557349,"sku":"NP9780143136446","price":25.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780143136446.jpg?v=1767736912","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/somebody-else-sold-the-world-isbn-9780143136446","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}