{mote}

through February 12th, FREE mail shipping and 50% off ground shipping at Lulu with coupon code of SHIPIT2018

my self-published things are here:

http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/acolyteroad

all previews on-site are books in their entirety. will send free hard copies to those interested in writing a review, free PDFs to anyone requesting. (bartonsmock@yahoo.com)

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recent poems:

[seasonals]

i.

hypnotized by those who feel no pain

death
is also
short

ii.

a bowl of soup
in the dark.

far off,

a turtle

~

[waker]

mouth pain / in a clean / house

–

the weight
of sister

–

the passwords of worried creatures

a stroller’s
body
of work

–

treeless (quiet)

~

[from a letter to my body]

when there are no mothers, I will crawl toward the one sitting with what her legs couldn’t burn and I will ask my blood to be the same fish

~

[1995]

and poem looked to me like the eyesight that stayed behind. claw and wing were the oars of my father’s blank craft. every boy in Ohio was a girl in a bookstore caring for the latest creature of a flat god. sadness hadn’t yet moved on from its stick figures and mothers were still blowing into perfectly round balloons. pale dog drank from a paint can. color could see, and see only, the future. a pinkness left my brother for the wrong kind of milk. sister had been hugging those angels

couldn’t bend their arms. zero

(that wizard
of the non
event)

was buying up land.

~

[frost]

as one might misplace
the remains
of a non
muscular
child, there is

in the spiritual ache
of a gas station
a form

reshaped
by the work
of its leaving

~

[we gave to the poor]

the leg I called footprint. the bread that had skin.

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sample poems, as such, at {isacoustic*}:

ONE INNOCENT, by Alex Hoshor

seems I’ve already
written the preface
to your story
about watching the
angels fly after
my body as
it scattered from
heaven into the
starving bellies of
distant enough wolves

three nights ahead
I was dreaming
of you kissing
me just softly
between my eyes

and of children
chasing a lamb
around the silence
of a grave

person Alex Hoshor, three poems

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IT’S ALWAYS THE SMALL THINGS, by Agnieszka Mauch

The shadow house is open

all rooms butchered
to the gore
of emptiness

A moon in the pond of the living room
is grinning
it has a face like thistles,
teeth like sightings at 3 am

it feeds me this setup
each time
I am torn apart like some door
to a revered space

sobbing out glass and blood

person Agnieszka Mauch, two poems