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June 20, 2017 / barton smock

….retroactively not….

in which I softly attempt to bring a journal into the middle of my son’s sickness. entries one thru eight.


one day my son is dying, the next he is not, and the next he is. day four: prayer is dismissive, but welcome. whose past is how we left it? body is delivered twice. beginning and end. nostalgia and wardrobe. middle eats everything. it snowed and I thought my blood was melting. could be the way you reason that happens for a reason. I was a kid when mouse was a kid. there’s no hope and I hope.


his weight a cricket on a piano key


disability as competition, jesus. and then these over here are arguing about the use of the word, disabled. here we will coin transformative indifference. a body is not a teachable moment. as a parent, I think I’ll take the shortcut. meanwhile, I have a glossary of terms you’ll never need that you can read beneath a dog-eared, thumbless god.


sickness in the young is god’s way of preventing nostalgia from becoming the god I remember


there is sickness by repetition and sickness by living once. echo hasn’t the chance to go deaf. you breathe and say god gives out no more than that which I can handle. the next breath is mine. god gave us god.


I was beautiful but now I’m ugly. (now) being the most recognizable symbol of the present. this is the silence I speak of. my son says (more ball) and you hear (moon bone). he is very sick. his moon has bones.


aside: we don’t come out faking our death, but are born because birth can’t sleep


it takes four juveniles to recruit his thumb. his fist has been called: hitchhiker practicing yoga in a junkyard. I cannot visit the instant ruin that forgiveness creates. because I want to.


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