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December 18, 2014 / barton smock

closings

trespassers
shoot themselves.

your son gets hired
by city

to illustrate
a book on mirrors
for households
with one
adult.

my son
dies
before the machine
that keeps him
alive

turns on.

a doll in doll country
burns its nose
trying to enter
the future
museum
of racist
oddities.

my hand tries my hand at forming
firstborn
erasures

using only
redactions.

god is exiled
for bringing
the animal
its childlike
behavior.

I am far too animated.

your body is the notice
eyes

give.

December 18, 2014 / barton smock

ins

night
the land
of a single
unseen
settler

-

father
half eye, half oil

-

self, self panic

December 18, 2014 / barton smock

longing

for Gen

it was not art but is was my son agreeing to draw a picture of a man with an itch. it was not exceptionally large but it was enough to clothe a scribble in my mother’s diary. it was not lost but it was lost on me how the very baby I used as the window of my window seat was able to stiffen at the sight of unrolled dough. it was not for nothing but it is

now.

(to see her crippled from pointing
to the sadness in her hand)

December 17, 2014 / barton smock

(review by Kristopher Taylor, for poetry collection ‘Misreckon’)

A poet friend of mine, Kristopher D. Taylor, has kindly weighed in on my newest poetry collection, Misreckon, at the below link. While there, be sure to read some of his work, including his ‘interrobang’ entries. Genuine guy.

http://kdtaylorisstillhere.wordpress.com/

https://dinkpublishing.wordpress.com/2014/12/17/review-of-barton-smocks-misreckon/

December 17, 2014 / barton smock

area

somewhere, the mostly boy body pretends to be explored. we are not we. my mother ruins a sketch of my mother. my father smokes two packs a day because online he was called prematurely haunted. the name of your existence

is

priest retires to make umbrella for jack-in-the-box. (her bus

is rain)

December 17, 2014 / barton smock

barbaric terminology

each twin
slower
than the last, she spits

over my dead body

baby
after baby
out.

as news
of the massacre
spreads, the young
call it
mother

by word of mouth.

December 16, 2014 / barton smock

knees

visiting hours are set by a god who knows I smoke. leaving my mark means I’ve pressed the barrel of a cap gun into my brother’s temple because the fucker keeps scooping into his ballcap the same toad. my two fathers are here to bounce things off my mother when she prays. sit long enough and semen will dry them together.

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