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March 27, 2015 / barton smock

incarnate

after we roll the dead dog from its towel and into god’s mouth

we take
for its tooth
a fly’s
grave.

satan’s kid continues to play chicken with a farm machine

in a slow
not still
life.

March 27, 2015 / barton smock

in Ohio, when mortal

my brother
jokes
in the barn
about suicide.

the fuck
would eat snow
if it came
from a cow.

I ask him
does he think
mom will miss
two cigarettes.

she’ll miss one, she’ll miss yours.

I am half his keeper.

March 26, 2015 / barton smock

nothing’s kitten

in the mind
of baby
unborn

where time
is frozen, where god

pleads
déjà vu,

the formless
mother
of embodied
whims

ghosts
herself
to associations
of gender
that exist

only

like nothing’s
kitten

March 25, 2015 / barton smock

god muscle

when dressing the disabled child in front of family

my language
is often
the one
I use

March 25, 2015 / barton smock

extramural (iii)

the fireplace is on drugs. get the good rope and tie it around the wrist of the hand I want dead.

on a drive I’ve undertaken to see my brother, it comes to me that odd things were being sold. jesus-on-a-stick. the crown of thorns, extra. I close my eyes. I dare the brain. the brain says it’s off to be forgiven.

brother has one ugly foot and one beautiful. I have this disorder causes me to fully remember dreams*

*dreams only

everything happened in 1985. words don’t mean. numbers mean. tell your gay father he has nothing to do with himself.

the wind is asleep. it sleeps outside.

March 24, 2015 / barton smock

extramural (ii)

as acne commits my face to a memory of scripture, god worries that man’s silence is a pox upon both the crow and the crow. on good authority, the cyclops is blind in one eye. you were tortured, yes, but nothing stands out. my living hand performs for my dying. imagine my father’s dismay at the realization yours had of having done this autopsy before.

March 24, 2015 / barton smock

extramural (i)

as he prepared to leave my world to the memory of a man addicted to god, my father was stung by a bee. this matters. bees carried the scent of absence. bees spoke to mother. mother was the woman it took two like my father to make. mother swallowed to bruise the body of any dropped thing sounding itself out in a nightmare had by children new to infancy. mother swallowed and called it singing. there will be a god. this matters. perfect, now, the nothing you say.

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