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June 22, 2016 / barton smock

edits, old, asylum

notes on the saints (i)

younger times, I’d lose some of my hair when bathing the sick. now older, I am not a private person. I foresee helping father with his winter gloves and him thinking I’ve returned his hands. if sick, one shouldn’t be grateful for the inclusion. there’s a shit son in all of us.

~

notes on the saints (ii)

in madness, explain a chair to the ocean. read by the glow of the unborn. scrape.

/ I am not close to any named animal. I flicker

in two
lost

minds.

~

notes on the saints (iii)

a crookedness within a white cat. a naked boy on crutches. a girl in a pink jumpsuit jogging in place beside a man rolling a tire. all of this says I’ve witnessed my father by himself on a child’s swing sucking two unlit cigarettes. we don’t exist until god begins to worry. our neighbor is an old woman with a gun. she is afraid her color will suddenly change. when she chases my father home I understand the riddle of his cigarettes. around him I pretend to be asleep. I hear him watering a rag and wait for him to press it to my nose and tell me my dreams are bleeding. when a kitten, the head of our white cat would stick to the refrigerator door.

~

notes on the saints (iv)

not a mark on her body was admissible. visibility should have no viewing hours. the angels need pictures of the poor. first blush, we had her as someone’s muse.

my handwriting suffered. my cursive began to match a popular suicide note.

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