some answers, from different places, that asked, or didn’t

My childhood was one of mothers and fathers singing in church, of outdoor dogs loyal and absent, of brothers keeping their teeth, keeping their promises, keeping score. So, a childhood of mimicry, closeness, and impermanence. I was cared for in small spaces and I worried about the bigger picture and who or what might take its photo. I wrote about death before death happened, and wrote toward faith while hearing the covered footfalls of god. Essentially, I copied. Then, death or the fear of death came for real where god did or would not. And, in that, my phobias, obsessions, and writings lost weight in a future based on past gravity. And, for it, were more seen. Purpose is abstract, but can render one precisely. I saw myself, and it was me.

I am drawn to blank space and, via poetry, I trade in how that blank space carries over from image into dream. Great avoidances, sudden things. The vulgar, the viral. I self-publish most of my work, and have had a few poetry collections published by presses. I am most excited at the moment about my collection ‘Wasp, gasp.’ which was just published in November 2023 by Incunabula Media, with cover art by my son Noah Michael Smock.

I am a father of four, and my youngest has a rare progressive disease called Vici Syndrome, so time is a thing that can go very backward very quickly. Self-publishing has given me the illusion of control over my hallucinations, and has allowed me to stop time with time.

To me, interrogating the following three things has guided me the most in clearing the correct space for my poems to land: God, death, and language. The existence and non-existence of all three is what allows those who are creator-less to create. You don’t have to know what you think. But you do have to give thought to its syllables and silence. As long as you’re still questioning, you’ll be able to creatively ask.

We do not live in unreal times. We never have. The animal kingdom kindly gave us, gives us, god. The absurd is a manifesto that the dream erases while protesting the afterlife of sleep. You've seen the bodies, gone, mid-ghost. My receipt is a rib, but which one. Surrealism steals the past from nostalgia. It's not an escape. It's a sustainable staying. A personal ruin that ruins nothing. My love for transformation is unchanged. Angels hate art.