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March 5, 2015 / barton smock

choice echo

have mostly boys and then have one of them need god. stop the spread of suicide by not only creating an angel but by creating an angel that knows to cover its mouth. kiss any person who says it’s your daughter’s height that keeps her from landing the role of jesus. assume you are bait for touch. dedicate yourself to men populations bore. put the male in male slut. ice your knuckles. give death a day here and there with crow. switch crows. the past can’t leave itself alone.

March 4, 2015 / barton smock


father sends me to school after being won over by what mother calls the artifice of experience. father puts the dirt in my blood. father cares for the doll of my instructor, a woman whose pet writes on the board that we feel neglected. my twin sister puts gently two eggs in a bra she’s saving herself for. I don’t hug. I don’t hug and so prove my father’s rib that I am the tombstone half of tits and tombstone. my boyfriend says I can have any girl I want but he also says his mouth can bob for snowballs. this is my body the teachable moment.

March 3, 2015 / barton smock


as in
in the disappeared
of its least

as the failure
of god
to preach
to the choir,

and abuse
as a testament
to the animal’s
to the IQ
of poverty

March 3, 2015 / barton smock


the girl who cries wolf
cries wolf
to three men
whose sons
are dead

March 3, 2015 / barton smock


instead of singing me to sleep
mother would put a cigarette
in my mouth
and have me
hold my breath
while she peeled
an orange. my feet

were the first
to go.

March 2, 2015 / barton smock


to heal her father, she asks me to brush her hair. she promises that when I’m done she’ll not only show me the scab but also remove it so I can see where her batteries go. the knots in her hair are ungodly. she says to leave them. she says she can get any cat to come inside. masturbation is new to me. I almost announce aloud that I must look often like I am trying to get a pair of scissors to eat snow.

March 1, 2015 / barton smock


my father snaps his shovel stealing snow from our travel-addicted neighbor. his mute sister’s last confession is a first. his doctor brother’s dollhouse is a hospital. television is a byproduct of my mother’s human longing for animals. if my arms were healed, I’d keep the baby from swatting its penis. I call my next trick rabbit sorrow.


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