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August 10, 2017 / barton smock

{a thing mal in form}

http://www.lulu.com/shop/barton-smock/l-a-i-t-y/paperback/product-23291654.html

August 10, 2017 / barton smock

to the mouse in dove’s grave

god’s dream
of dying
first

August 10, 2017 / barton smock

{notes from life under bell- final}

 

(i)

on video my cousin is singing a song she’s learned by heart. she’s maybe four. I don’t know where to begin. this pond behind her, perhaps? that in my memory is the size of a fire pit. or maybe, here, in the darkening sameness of those sentences strung together by cows. or years from now, even, with the word no and her sister’s lookalike being assaulted by an only child in a library of fragile non-fiction. my cousin is singing a song she’s learned by heart. she’s five. a careful six. sound’s fossil. no city half-imagined. no insect obsessed with privacy. time matters to the frog we catch.

~

(ii)

there are days he is the son of muscle memory and funny bone. days his hands are gloves from a small god. poor god, he says, and grows. days he can carry a circle to any clock in the town of hours. days his past can be heard by his siblings- you’re beautiful the way you are. days his blood pushes a bread crumb through his thigh. days his scar is a raft for ear number three. nights his brain / the separation of church and church.

~

(iii)

violence is a dreamer. a boy on a stopped bus is dared to eat a worm. it feels authentic. alas, there is no worm. the devil knows to stay pregnant. word spreads about the girl without a tongue. cricket lover. and then, bulimic, when she won’t sneeze.

~

(iv)

the mother of your hand is smashing spiders with her wrist. we have a high-chair for every creature that eats its own hair. the twins in the attic have switched diapers. skeptics. voices heard by the ghost of my stomach.

~

(v)

it is snowing the first time my daughter drives alone. Ohio is cruel. stillbirth, old four-eyes. you want them to like you. the insects you save.

~

(vi)

a lawnmower starts then dies then is pushed by a noisemaker past fog’s dark church. an unprepared prophet drinks the milk meant for baby eyesore. my sister loses most of her hair putting together a puzzle of her mouth. a bomb is dropped on a bomb.

~

(vii)

the man his shadow and the woman her dream.

their child
its track
of time

~

(viii)

onstage a dog barks at an empty stroller. the mosh pit is weak. last count had three pregnant, three resembling the man who unplugged my father, and two praying for the inner life of a hole. onstage a boy is holding up a kite for another boy to punch. dog’s been tased.

~

(ix)

we put a museum on the moon. I had all my dreams at once. a mouse was wrapped in a washcloth then crushed with the songbook of baby hairless. fire treats grass like fire.

~

(x)

outside the bathroom’s designer absence, our melancholy impressed by symbolism, we form

a line

~

(xi)

tree: the unbathed statue of your screaming

shade: the folder of my clothes

~

(xii)

praying he’ll see again them cows of lake suicide, the handcuffed frog shepherd

prays he’ll see again them cows of lake suicide

~

(xiii)

a body to dry my blood. some god

seeing me
as a person…

how quickly birth gets old.

~

(xiv)

lonelier than creation, I have nothing on trauma. genetically speaking, I don’t think anybody expected us to spend so much time on one idea. this open umbrella. ghost at the keyboard.

~

(xv)

and in the spacecraft where a mother diapers the doll that makes her fat there plays the voice of god asking for a film crew none will miss

~

(xvi)

we wore clothes as an apology for being nearby. a door was a door. a ghost was a ghost and a door. the house was possible. its rooms were not. baby was a body spat from the mouth of any creature dreaming of a bathtub. I got this lifejacket from a scarecrow. said the redheaded tooth fairy.

~

(xvii)

his baby is wailing in its crib for its mother and he mans you up for a cigarette and blows on the baby’s face and somewhere you yourself have stopped crying as you are pulled from a pile of leaves by two people made of smoke

~

(xviii)

for a spine, doll prays to fork.

all kinds
of shapes
miscarry.

~

(xix)

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.

my son’s weight is a cricket on a piano key. it’s more than I can handle that god gave us god.

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

aside:

I study lullaby
and lullaby
bruise

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.

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

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.

the disappearance surrounding said event. a horse belly-up in water’s blood. see telescope. also, cane of the blind ghost. magician, maybe, on a rabbitless moon- oh cure.

oh silence afraid to start a sentence.

in the photograph a fist is cut from, a kneeling family of five is putting to bed

the unremembered
present.

traced, perhaps, for a terrible circle-

today was mostly your hand.

August 10, 2017 / barton smock

atop

I told everyone at school that my parents were together when they died and everyone at work that my children were not. I chewed my sister’s food because she feared the quiet. ate in two languages. I wanted my brother’s singing voice. his newborn to be shaped in the shadow of a pipe that went from cocoon to cornstalk. the sound of god hitting on a ghost.

August 9, 2017 / barton smock

{soon. ly.}

some poems:

[irreal]

kid says dad I love monsters and starts crying and it still kills me how I thought for so long that people in movies were put there to keep tabs on their abusers and how that kind of thinking made my brother cut his hair so more hair could find him and he’d pile the hair and tell it not to worry because the dark will come for its doll and then mom would show up with a vacuum or sometimes a trash bag no matter where we were in our lives and she’d be as quiet as a mirror or a young boy excited to see his back

~

[untitled]

we are no longer sought, brother, by the aliens of our youth. a good day has both anthill and sex shop. the future comes to the same people. touch is the mirror that named our dogs.

~

[seas]

the missing apple. the hole in my cheek. the evidence that freed hunger. the calmest child whose silence left the church. the many barns of the stripper’s bloodied horse. the scarecrow praying for a bad back. the one-eyed grief counselor. the past. our faith in rehearsal.

~

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August 9, 2017 / barton smock

notes from life under bell (xix)

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.

my son’s weight is a cricket on a piano key. it’s more than I can handle that god gave us god.

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

aside:

I study lullaby
and lullaby
bruise

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.

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

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.

the disappearance surrounding said event. a horse belly-up in water’s blood. see telescope. also, cane of the blind ghost. magician, maybe, on a rabbitless moon- oh cure.

oh silence afraid to start a sentence.

in the photograph a fist is cut from, a kneeling family of five is putting to bed

the unremembered
present.

traced, perhaps, for a terrible circle-

today was mostly your hand.

August 9, 2017 / barton smock

notes from life under bell (xviii)

for a spine, doll prays to fork.

all kinds
of shapes
miscarry.