so I did this really long rather awkward reading from my last two self-publications but I do mean what I say or at least what one can hear of it: hard copies available, PAY WHAT YOU WANT: untouched in the capital of soon, 187 pages poems, Sept 2021 can be purchased via paypal (bartsmock@gmail.com) or Venmo: @Barton-Smock-2 or CashApp: $BartonSmock blood to bathe us in its blue past, 217 pages poems new and selected, May 2022 can be purchased via paypal (bartsmock@gmail.com) or Venmo: @Barton-Smock-2 or CashApp: $BartonSmock PDFs at GUMROAD
I have all the words that have gone missing to say that I am thankful for being in the August 2021 run of Poem-A-Day at poets.org as guest edited by Kazim Ali Read my poem here about the poem: “I can't speak for all fathers, but my own fathering is littered with necessary and fake finalities. As such, I wrote this poem by hand on a small piece of paper while worrying about the long and short lives of my children. In the spacing of the poem, I tried to honor the little room I'd given myself for its projected concerns.” —Barton Smock
ocean I die in a wave as a thought in a horse sleep is the itch death has for god her bird watcher skin
The forgetful shadow of Ohio roadkill
The footprint’s lost scene from the snowed-in movie of your mother’s life
The crushed swimmer at the red typewriter
The year-long field The eye’s blank acre A stretcher Snow’s most random skull The baby that crawls into its own stomach beneath an icicle A sleep that aches from dissolving god
For three years, the baby doesn’t cry. We hold two funerals for the same dog and throw a birthday party for a nosebleed. We each lose a car on the ice. We buy fish food for friends who don't have fish and it makes them miss each other. We eat in front of the baby. I don’t think we can stop. Our friends ask the year. God hears nothing but us.
a fish named tooth decay a spiderweb in a pill bottle
Dear you, I am at a word for loss. My brother is alive and shows me where the bullet hit another bullet. I am poor. They talk about me like I’m here.
The first fruit to be forbidden was made in a lab by two children who’d died in a treehouse from not knowing when to eat. The angel avoids orphans.
Sound is echo’s silent alarm. I close my mouth underwater and yours opens in Ohio. God overthinks a deer. I want my children to be alive all the time.
My good son Noah M Smock does his own thing and did three shirt designs incorporating lines from my poems...gods, brothers, bones, etc... ck out his TEEPUBLIC account if interested. If you send a purchase receipt to me at bartonsmock@yahoo.com, I'll send you a book of mine. Also, I set up a LINKTREE account if interested. Lastly, my most recent book is blood to bathe us in its blue past, May 2022 at 217 pages. Privately self-published and is pay what you want. can be purchased via paypal (bartsmock@gmail.com) or Venmo: @Barton-Smock-2 or CashApp: $BartonSmock
We hear from grief that loss feels left out. Why write. Because it's hard to surprise god and even harder to avoid. Maybe. Proximity keeps eating the distance that keeps my mouth open. I am grateful. For those who believe the poor exist outside of being made. For those who believe that one can get sick and not know it and so replace their knowing with another's. For writing and for not writing. For my children who leave and come back and stay and drift off. For my brothers who are each disappearing into the darkroom to fully develop our vanishings. For my father who sends me photos of things that happened and teaches me to change how I remember. For my mother who goes from place to place understanding the needs of people who have no person. For Gen who leaves nothing and no one out and carries the near and the far to the same secret place where passwords have been put to sleep. I have some pictures. You've probably seen them. Pretend they're there.
kingsoftrain 