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my available self-published works are here:
works, as such:
[eating the animal back to life]
published July 2015
of which Kazim Ali says:
Speaking of being captivated, when I was in Cleveland’s most exciting new independent bookstore, Guide to Kulchur, I picked up on a whim a few small volumes that appeared to have been published by the author using Lulu. I was so entranced by the seemingly simple but endlessly complex, prickly lyrics that I wrote to the author, Barton Smock, through his blog, kingsoftrain.wordpress.com. He’s been sending me books now and then and his latest, Eating the Animal Back to Life, is just knocking me out. These poems are desperate, tender, wry, alarmed, god-obsessed, and musically driven. Smock is not published by others, he does it all himself and so the only place you can get his books is here. All the advanced degrees and publishing credentials in the world can’t get you the unspeakable duende that Smock somehow taps into, poem after poem.
[earth is part earth and there’s a hole in the sound I made you from]
published December 2015
published March 2016
…The result of this type of work is that a poem might seem fractured, when it is not. Smock works with both image and symbol in order to create poems that are iconoclastic, alpha and omega…
as reviewed by Krystal Sierra:
[shuteye in the land of the sacred commoner (& other poems)]
published June 2016
published June 2016
~ this is a combined publication of these four collections: earth is part earth and there’s a hole in the sound I made you from / MOON tattoo / infant*cinema / shuteye in the land of the sacred commoner [& other poems] ~
[depictions of reentry]
published August 2016
[hick lore rabbit hole]
published October 2016
[pictures of god don’t sell]
published December 2016
(newer poems and poems selected from ~eating the animal back to life~, as well as collections ~depictions of reentry~ and ~hick lore rabbit hole~ in full)
[surprise for me a crow]
published January 2017
the hole we’re in has disappeared. we sleep on the gospel of baby mudlung. I pray mostly for people to get hurt. I don’t have a brother. he’s all alone. sister will smoke anything. a worm from the vacuum, the lice from nostalgia. I have a tv in my room that wants to play piano. I have a toy car and a turtle. it takes forever.
and what would you have me imagine? a change of tense in a tale of abuse. a baby licking the palm of a doll. a spoon. a robot’s broken arm. a chalk outline of a worm. hunger’s tacklebox. our allergic sister’s suicide note. a calf eating its first canary.
the stone’s wait-listed heart
a god with something to prove
the common telescope of a haunted cyclops
a round of leap frog
played in poverty’s
ask god how long it takes to decide on a language. remember the dead bear. the sleepy spoon. ask the soul about its weakness for image.
[passage notes (ii)]
it treats the paintball injuries of contagious dogs. dry-humps to the sobbing of saint visitation. its sister delivers her own snowball in the binoculars of a man with a limp and a finite supply of plastic lawnmowers. I learn about its town from a poster meant to attract what’s never left. this is where I go to look like I’m here.
I am not the first to know how the world will end.
my second language, my lost
ghost / be alone
she took an apple
from the wax
museum / with what,
do you poke