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August 16, 2016 / barton smock


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mine are there. my most recent, depictions of reentry, is here:

some poems from said collection:


after leaving its memory to the hibernating bear, the insect died. I don’t know what story you’re trying to tell. the angel has three fathers. the angel was born to blackmail a ghost. this bald motherfucker thinks I need shown how to chew my fingernails. the mask is my elevator and the pig my coffin. I have a sister was made to make an egg disappear. a father who’d shave to give the thing in the stomach time to plan its escape. the angel vomits into a pink wheelbarrow. shows affection.




a nostalgia
that suffers


a hobby



you’re awake
and your son
is awake
and neither
of you
in sickness
the raccoon
of sickness…

no god unkissed, no dirt…

and sleep, sleep
is a priest
whose hilljack
the cult
of the noiseless



what seashell does for ocean
my pillow

for hunger.

oh dream,

wiped out

is this
a stone

or the mating
of grief?


[depictions of reentry (viii)]

we laugh about them now

the stepchildren
of apocalypse…

pregnancy as suicide prevention.

be wowed
by stuff
on earth.


[depictions of reentry (xii)]

mom needs a jar of jelly to call the priest. try as he might, my brother can’t seem to get his tongue stuck to the oven door. my hands are here to hide the fact I’m wearing gloves. dad snaps three pictures before passing out. the voodoo dolls of my invisible babies have passed each other underground. I am thinking of things you can do.


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