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February 1, 2017 / barton smock


some former:


[circa (xx)]

to the man whose face can do things mine cannot, I give my son.

silence has no creator. pictures

of god
don’t sell.


[circa (xxiv)]

“Everyone you see
lives somewhere.
How is this done?” – Franz Wright

I am wearing a bomb and she is wearing a bomb. we are going to the same empty place.


[circa (xxviii)]

I had the longest dream

you were there and mom
was in your head

our pets had all gone blind

dad was bathing
a baby jesus
in the basket
of a bike

I began to forget
things, the toy

that ate
its young



our collective identity is a sick child. some say fever, some say welcome to the loop of the biblically speechless. people are for others. are for making eyes at the gender of the god as it oversleeps in the coma we slip from. the child prays. the child causes a stir in the pastoral urgency of a moral imagination. we pray. we miss yearly the showdown between the town drunk and the town ghost. I trace a finger to put my finger on. the television belonging to our lady of snowy reception has fallen on our little angel more than once. nothing in the world is the world.


my self-published works are here:

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