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August 13, 2018 / barton smock


some entries from poem sequence returning:


my angel is a scarecrow in a sleeping bag. heaven a movie theater in spain. she walks that way because she is trying to step on her blood. the boy at the gate is lost and must choose either frankenstein’s childhood or a more diverse nostalgia. orphans on earth smell like bread.


there are pictures of me sleeping that are responsible for my brother cheating on his diet. apples the shape of going home. sex addicts fighting to direct a musical about the number of people disappearing

to let death
mourn. there is a chair in an open field. a throbbing in the palm of sound’s publisher. a kid under a blanket asking god

when did she know
what perfection
was. a mouth that was a bomb

/ before I had teeth


with sound
the second language
of absence, with

mother, bible, bee

(I am trying to memorize missing you


of the removed
stitch. what I would bite

to have your mouth.


in the history of newborns
not one is named

shelter, and we’ve called

only two

my dream priest
in the desert
after making
with death
a movie, no…

the blood’s
for brain


they took
the body

stayed with star


you can train
a bird
but not
a fish
to care

for a thumb…

fire is the skin of god


a father
at peace
with how many times
his hair
has died
is standing
in a museum
before the shell
of a giant

his infant’s mouth
has gone home
to lose
its shape

he is alone
like any
grocery cart




thru August 13th, Lulu is offering free mail shipping or 50% off ground with coupon code of SHIPIT2018

poetry collections, mine, self-published, are here:

free hard copy to anyone interested in writing a review- inquire at


I have privately published {mood piece for baby blur}, a work consisting of 60 poems, and am making it available to anyone donating 5.00 or more to my poetry journal {isacoustic*}

donation can be made, here:
or it can be sent to (

be sure to provide a physical address, to include your name, for the send.

You can check out {isacoustic*}, here:

facebook page:



in the doing of a thing there is often a lull and in that lull a curvature of worry that perhaps something has too quickly taken shape and so one might be led to explore creating, not to make, but to evoke and I will attempt, here, to do that and hope it is a space that takes up only its own.

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