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July 2, 2022 / barton smock

( edits, deletions, very old, WE BROUGHT HOME THE WRONG DYING BABY, a failure, but, 2017


I trade it for a microscope that can see ghosts. I don’t know how old I am but I know what year I want it to be. An eel collapses at the thought of a play being performed in a stone 

and there, at the bottom of grief, a cup of dirt with nothing to bury


Mother is chewing gum like something fell asleep in my mouth. I pray for things I know will happen. For your stickmen to share a toothache.


The darkness has many stomachs and we’ve no one to tell my son he’s lonely.


The mouth is born after eating a blindfold. Name everything.


Entries from the dictionary owned by the first angel to be bitten by a mosquito:

a girl with a marble who answers to overdose

a rooster ghosted by an elevator

in my years with the poor, I wrote nothing down

the scalp will baby its grief


The clapping boy from the cult of thunder rolls his wheelchair over a doll in a mask then touches noses with the last rocking horse while putting two words together

like ghost
and exodus

for the second coming of a handcuffed animal


Picking flowers for my shadow, the boy loves no one. Everything I touch remembers being my hand. The world has ended, or started early. God’s heartbeat. Sound’s watermark.


overtook no cigarette. surprised no sleep. keyed the car

of a minor

radar is getting possessive.


Three times she says the word brain to her stomach's blue mirror while scoring sight's wardrobe of rags in earworm's dream


there’s a comb
in my narrative, a goldfish

coming to
in a beheaded

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