id,comments,provenance,dictionary,created_at,reviewed_on,work_id,theme,context,updated_at,metaphor,text
24722,"",Reading,"",2015-10-28 20:38:55 UTC,,8094,"","",2015-10-28 20:38:55 UTC,"""The days of our childhood together were steep steps into a collapsing mind.""","The days of our childhood together were steep steps into a collapsing mind. It looked like we rescued ourselves, were rescued. Then there are these days, each day of our adult lives. They will never forget our way through, these brothers, each brother, my brother, dear brother, my dearest brothers, dear heat--
(p. 89)"
24731,"",Reading,"",2015-11-15 19:31:43 UTC,,8094,"","",2015-11-15 19:31:43 UTC,"""Those years of and before me and my brothers, the years of passage, plantation, migration, of Jim Crow segregation, of poverty, inner cities, profiling, of one in three, two jobs, boy, hey boy, each a felony, accumulate into the hours, inside our lives where we are all caught hanging, the rope inside us, the tree inside us, its roots our limbs, a throat sliced through and when we open our mouth to speak, blossoms, o blossoms, no place coming out, brother, dear brother, that kind of blue""","On the tip of a tongue one note following another is another path, another dawn where the pink sky is the bloodshot of struck, of sleepless, of sorry, of senseless, shush. Those years of and before me and my brothers, the years of passage, plantation, migration, of Jim Crow segregation, of poverty, inner cities, profiling, of one in three, two jobs, boy, hey boy, each a felony, accumulate into the hours, inside our lives where we are all caught hanging, the rope inside us, the tree inside us, its roots our limbs, a throat sliced through and when we open our mouth to speak, blossoms, o blossoms, no place coming out, brother, dear brother, that kind of blue. The sky is the silence of brothers all the days leading up to my call.
(pp. 89-90)"
24732,"",Reading,"",2015-11-15 19:34:14 UTC,,8094,"","",2015-11-15 19:34:14 UTC,"""That's the bruise the ice in the heart was meant to ice.""","That time and that time and that time the outside blistered the inside of you, words outmaneuvered years, had you in a chokehold, every part roughed up, the eyes dripping.
That's the bruise the ice in the heart was meant to ice.
(p. 156)"
24923,"",Reading,"",2016-07-11 16:41:08 UTC,,8153,"","",2016-07-11 16:41:08 UTC,"""You were one of them, / weren't you, with death / itching in the brain like a cloud of midges?""","You'll inform me you bled out a long time ago.
In Chicago. In Reading.
Somewhere cold. Winter
all the time, where people go
down to the frozen water
with an old crowbar
to bash the skin of the ice back to flowing current.
You were one of them,
weren't you, with death
itching in the brain like a cloud of midges?
You won't fall if I let go.
I never held you in my arms."
25063,"","On chalkboard: seen eating lunch at Revolutionary Soup, in Charlottesville, Virginia.","",2017-03-13 20:20:07 UTC,,8215,"","",2017-03-13 20:20:07 UTC,"""It's never really dark
anyway, not even inside the skull""","Sleep well. A gland in the command
center releases its yellow hornet
to tell you you're missing the point,
the point being that getting smacked
by a board, gored by umbrellas, tongue-
lashed by cardiologists, bush-wacked
by push-up bras is a learning experience.
Sure, you're about learned up. Weren't
we promised the thieves would be punished?
Promised jet-packs and fleshy gardenias
and wine to get the dust out of our mouths?
And endless forgiveness? A floral rot
comes out of the closet, the old teacher's
voice comes out of the ravine, red-wings
in rushes never forget their rusty-hinged
song. Moon-song, dread-song, hardly-a-song
at all song. Let's ignore that call,
let someone else stop Mary from herself
for the 80th time. It's never really dark
anyway, not even inside the skull. Take
my hand, fellow figment. Every spring
we'll meet, definite as swarms of stars,
insects over glazed puddles, your eyes
green even though your driver's license
says otherwise. And yes, mortal knells
in sleepless hours, hollow knocks of empty"
25064,"","On chalkboard: seen eating lunch at Revolutionary Soup, in Charlottesville, Virginia.","",2017-03-13 20:21:43 UTC,,8215,"","",2017-03-13 20:21:43 UTC,"""And yes, mortal knells / in sleepless hours, hollow knocks of empty / boats against a dock but still the mind / is a meadow, the heart an ocean even though / it burns.""","Sleep well. A gland in the command
center releases its yellow hornet
to tell you you're missing the point,
the point being that getting smacked
by a board, gored by umbrellas, tongue-
lashed by cardiologists, bush-wacked
by push-up bras is a learning experience.
Sure, you're about learned up. Weren't
we promised the thieves would be punished?
Promised jet-packs and fleshy gardenias
and wine to get the dust out of our mouths?
And endless forgiveness? A floral rot
comes out of the closet, the old teacher's
voice comes out of the ravine, red-wings
in rushes never forget their rusty-hinged
song. Moon-song, dread-song, hardly-a-song
at all song. Let's ignore that call,
let someone else stop Mary from herself
for the 80th time. It's never really dark
anyway, not even inside the skull. Take
my hand, fellow figment. Every spring
we'll meet, definite as swarms of stars,
insects over glazed puddles, your eyes
green even though your driver's license
says otherwise. And yes, mortal knells
in sleepless hours, hollow knocks of empty
boats against a dock but still the mind
is a meadow, the heart an ocean even though
it burns. As long as there's a sky, someone
will be falling from it. After molting,
eat your own shucked skin for strength,
keep changing the subject in hopes
that the subject will change you."
25147,"",Reading,"",2018-02-28 18:00:00 UTC,,8258,"","",2018-02-28 18:00:00 UTC,"""my good mother, // her mind a trail of crumbs / in a woods flocked with birds.""","These days midlife
holds the jagged edge:
my nephew in prison,
a prisoner > friends insane
with work or sick
of trying to be loved,
my parents handing over their lives
like evidence: my good mother,
her mind a trail of crumbs
in a woods flocked with birds."
25148,"",Reading,"",2018-02-28 18:02:43 UTC,,8258,"","",2018-02-28 18:02:43 UTC,"""Culture: a kind of knife: / cuts one way opens / your brain to a certain / breed of light shaves / consciousness to its // purpose, its cross.""","Culture: a kind of knife:
cuts one way opens
your brain to a certain
breed of light shaves
consciousness to its
purpose, its cross: the nail
thru your hand >< your
other hand holding
the hammer."
25149,"",Reading,"",2018-02-28 18:04:23 UTC,,8258,"","",2018-02-28 18:04:23 UTC,"""Memory, / a jar of flies. Spin off the lid.""","What skinny faith you have —
and such big teeth: all
the better. I mean to step out
of history for just a minute,
to feel my blood float
above the say-so. Memory,
a jar of flies. Spin off the lid.
I forget what you know. What
did you ever know?"
25150,"",Reading,"",2018-02-28 18:06:17 UTC,,8258,"","",2018-02-28 18:06:17 UTC,"""O, bold, / bare legs of women / upon which my soul beads / like sweat.""","I think I’m
starting to know
Everything < O, tongue!
O, summer! O, bold,
bare legs of women
upon which my soul beads
like sweat > O, rosemary rolls
and marmalade!
Hard-bodied beetles
with your six-legged sashay!
O,
funky beats and bitter
guitars < O, children
taller and taller no
matter
what!
O, moonlit sea! O, Hershey bars!
O, bizness besuited
pigeons of death: How much
does it cost? O, moment
flung from the last-last
to the next-next."