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August 23, 2021 / barton smock

Poem-A-Day at poets.org

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
May 23, 2022 / barton smock

blood to bathe us in its blue past . poems new and selected . self published . available now

A little later than promised, but my new and selected work blood to bathe us in its blue past is available now.

Love the covers that Aidan C Smock and Noah M Smock have done, and the animations that Noah M Smock has done. 

blood to bathe us in its blue past
May 2022
poems new and selected
217 pages

PAY WHAT YOU WANT

can be purchased via paypal (bartsmock@gmail.com)
or Venmo: @Barton-Smock-1
or CashApp: $BartonSmock

Copies for review are available upon request made to bartonsmock@yahoo.com

Animations are here, here, and here

Covers 1 (Noah), 2 (Noah), and 3 (Aidan), below:

May 20, 2022 / barton smock

country,

country 17

a ghost with a nosebleed
left by god
to milk
away
May 19, 2022 / barton smock

(blood to bathe us in its blue past, new and selected works (possibly never upcoming

So, this weekend I will be completing a self-published work of new and selected poems called blood to bathe us in its blue past at about 250 pages.

I am working with Noah M Smock, and possibly Mary Ann Smock and Aidan Smock, on multiple covers for the work.

You can watch animations that Noah M Smock did for some of the poems HERE, HERE, and HERE

Will post the covers and more details this weekend.

Work will be pay what you want.

can be purchased via paypal (bartsmock@gmail.com)
or Venmo: @Barton-Smock-1
or CashApp: $BartonSmock
May 19, 2022 / barton smock

(country (entries thru 5/19/22

country 1

Death is the only absence that absence honors.

Not seeing creatures 
up close
is home

.

country 2

No one prayed here
nor left
here to pray.

Hurry, math. 
The small gods

they lower
the footprint

.

country 3

Blue from making thin air,

we could almost
see
the snowball

in your mother's
stomach

.

country 4

A tooth taken by a tooth. 

The night 
on one 
knee. 

A child as friendless as a wrist

.

country 5

A bunch of insomniacs are making short films about nosebleeds. To them I am sometimes a sound effect. Handstand or handsand, I am too young to be watched. I don't have wrists and I can't take the bath your body took. Kiss loss. Kiss loss where

.

country 6

Lightning as it thirsts for a stray glacier's rib.

The unsought 
quiet 
of a surgeon's 
body.

Things
after they happen

in the sun of my disgrief

.

country 7

Two mirrors praying over the glass in our food. Death continuing to believe I know where god is. The pill that remembers your one thought. The choir of alas

.

country 8

I made a list, once, of all the weapons I wanted you to try and then, while barefoot, I was told that god would never walk and that my birthmark was a hole I'd never see. 

Here are two poems about nostalgia:

regret regrets not using its alias

this is the wrong 
tadpole's 
past

.

country 9

Two poems about his gun:

You can like your body but only if we can see it all at once. Sleep

is the new
sleep

.

country 10

100 poems about time travel:

The child young enough to be on my hip is waving to the nobody in the microwave. The dead have a past. But it's empty

.

country 11

We argue agonology in the exploded ghostgrief of god.

Repair is winter's last machine

.

country 12

We throw seashells into a cornfield.

There are children
we want back

.

country 13

A glove passed from baby to baby 

or a light switch 
left 
for nearby 
angels.

A hand in the middle
of being a hand

.

country 14

An orange baseball gives up in a white field.

Birth and death
no longer
miss each other.

A broken branch from my dog's sleep
is a big deal

and the saddest thing

.

country 15

We put the baby in the house and went outside. I wish I could be more specific. The baby was alone. It wasn't a house you could see from another baby. From the road

I mean

.

country 16

Again the hands know which is newer. A flame yawns your hairbrush still. The toothache on the top of my head wants its own toothache. For hours the child

Soft, like an exit

.
May 19, 2022 / barton smock

(ghostalgia (entries thru 5/19/22

*

I don't know how to tell you that god comes back for everything but the mouth or that sleep was the last breathing machine to break our first. 

Meaning
loses word.

Buzz rootless in the child's bee.

*

After all, I did not tell you that my son's body is a cloud, his pain

the duster
of his bones, his loneliness

that of a parent
with children 

*

In the doll's only dream, the child cuts god underwater

I wasn't ugly 
but you didn't 
see me

Return gives its hair to absence

An elevator is lost 
by an angel

*

A pup expires with a yip in a ransacked store. You say we are behind the snowy tv screen we made into a blanket for a dying robot. You can have me from the waist up. In Ohio I am not a girl chewing the corner of a baseball card but I am her brother researching the toy exile of lightning storms. Our domestic inquiries include the sex of the first person in hell, the number of animals giving birth in the field that burned emptiness, and if Adam was Eve's great lie. The more I think of time travel, the more it can do.

*

memory scares itself
twice
or once

you've a way

with squirrels
and pain

*

A train named after another train 
changes fields. 

Mirrors forget
that god
can't move.

*

God slips in and out of the bomb before it lands

Snow and rain
meet once
Not yet

*

A moon-owned payphone

The leaf of my pain

A pharmacy
trying to move
a tornado

Bad lighting, cigarettes, grass

It's not
personal

*

You are a certain way 
and look 
for love

Cricket
learns of sleep

Jesus wanting there to be a god

*

I can't tell if my stories start in the middle or if they're just without a beginning. The last time I heard my grandmother sing, I was at rest in a boy pretending to sleep. Footprint, footstep. The hands love both.

*

the crawling, the baby, what if it was never me, what if it was my memory of being near the thing that's coming, and my kids can't sleep 

if a paint can
is open 

and you only talk to me when I'm dying 

*

In the dream that my brother calls his haircut dream, I have a tail I'm not allowed to touch. I tell him no haircut has ever taken this long. I tell him that god wanted more kids. I am trying to make him laugh, or pray. Far mice are eating the noise from your wrist.

*

I am small asking if I can bring some snow with me into the bathtub & someone starts to say no but because we're outside nothing gets finished & later to my mom someone explains how frostbite has been using our handwriting for suicide notes & pain in its unfound egg is drawing its take on pain 

*

My neighbor on one side has a pop-gun and my neighbor on the other a candy cigarette. Both are on me to get a pool as if we've seen the last of any mother's blue-headed angel. Like most houses our houses are made of a god listening for the toothpick that sings to a crack from inside a doll. Doll I am not surprised to be with you in the same bathtub where sleep stays to remind death of its failed audition. I don't tell you about my kids. 

*

Say poor and I'll say my arsonist son didn't sell a single flashlight. Touch is a debt touch owes itself. A warm boat left on the erasable sea.

*

By the time darkness touches every map, the baby is useless. God a mistake mistaken for a childhood's double life. If there is a horse, there is a horse

thinking only of itself yet also
on the kindness 
of a past 
horse. 

Sight cooks my eye in a voided spoon.

*

eyesight
in the dream
is a small
cloth
on a decent
doll
but the dress
code isn't
clear

*

I will miss your hair 
with mine. 

We don't need to talk. 

Someone 

remind longing 
to mourn.

*

I've never been in a dream like this where I can see all my kids at once. It could mean nothing. A thumbtack I've had longer than a paperclip. The sleep-getting guard of god's two amnesias. Dying. I'm not sure what you want. The animals I name in no time.

*

I don't remember the whole poem. Sister announcing in the shower how she's taking a thunderstorm. Another sister asking is silence a fruit. Me saying no. The dark a tiny whale fooled by emptiness.

*

The headless doctor whose memory of every birth is the same. The child whose skin fools god but not water. Fire in fire’s preferred shape.

*

The hour-long crow. The birds living bird to bird. Death, here and there, in the later stages of its disappearance. An almost father weeping on a movie set left to him by god. Weeping perhaps a poverty too far, ah. They don’t go away. Hungers that report to no one.

*

May 19, 2022 / barton smock

ghostalgia xxii

The hour-long crow. The birds living bird to bird. Death, here and there, in the later stages of its disappearance. An almost father weeping on a movie set left to him by god. Weeping perhaps a poverty too far, ah. They don’t go away. Hungers that report to no one.
May 18, 2022 / barton smock

ghostalgia xxi

The headless doctor whose memory of every birth is the same. The child whose skin fools god but not water. Fire in fire’s preferred shape.
May 11, 2022 / barton smock

country,

country 16

Again the hands know which is newer. A flame yawns your hairbrush still. The toothache on the top of my head wants its own toothache. For hours the child

Soft, like an exit
May 10, 2022 / barton smock

ghostalgia xx

I don't remember the whole poem. Sister announcing in the shower how she's taking a thunderstorm. Another sister asking is silence a fruit. Me saying no. The dark a tiny whale fooled by emptiness.
May 10, 2022 / barton smock

country,

country 15

We put the baby in the house and went outside. I wish I could be more specific. The baby was alone. It wasn't a house you could see from another baby. From the road

I mean