Daughters with a couple words unlearned go into the blue to wonder if a father’s mouth pain means he hasn’t been lossing. The arm in my arm needs an arm to miss. There will be no paintings of this dog, she says. I am not always the hole my body needs. Here is one way to get nothing on the newbone baby.
when homesick I seashell my son’s weight in softspots
We were dogless. Animals gave us names but would call us nothing in front of god. A fire started a fire. I said it was me and I was believed. I was given the shyest room by those who wanted me to eat. I ate the room. Sex took it the hardest. A local church displayed the parts of the room it could remember. We heard the sizes were all wrong, and they were. The microscope was close, but was missing the band-aid we’d scarred across the eyepiece. I wanted it to snow but so did the invisible and their sad collection of ghosts. We’re never home when strangers kill the dog.
My good son Noah M Smock does his own thing and did three shirt designs incorporating lines from my poems...gods, brothers, bones, etc... ck out his TEEPUBLIC account if interested. If you send a purchase receipt to me at bartonsmock@yahoo.com, I'll send you a book of mine. Also, I set up a LINKTREE account if interested. Lastly, my most recent book is blood to bathe us in its blue past, May 2022 at 217 pages. Privately self-published and is pay what you want. can be purchased via paypal (bartsmock@gmail.com) or Venmo: @Barton-Smock-2 or CashApp: $BartonSmock
house 9 if I turn my loose tooth toward the cry of a baby baby gets there first. the tv on or off a museum of failure
your god in an oven untouched by human hands is dying. I cannot with my scar move the spot on the ceiling that we always mistake for a spider
Thomas M. Wright's The Stranger is a bewitchingly downbeat true crime thriller both anchored and spirited away by the eidolic performances of Joel Edgerton and Sean Harris, each of which use a resigned urgency to centralize the haunted hinterland of retroactive pursuit. Edgerton eats worry in his sleep, and Harris sees friendship as starvation. Evil here grows older by being younger than time. ~ Sissy, as directed by Hannah Barlow and Kane Senes, stops time long enough for its slasher sensibilities to overtake both homage and mantra with the faster sisters of fomo and isolation all while tracking the otherworldly un-mirrored performance of Aisha Dee as it duels for the same safe-space nostalgia and the right to say to everyone and to no one 'if it's not in the frame, it didn't happen yet'. Dee is exodus and revelation, and moves the end times back into the middle where belief must re-earn its brutal beginnings. Full of backhanded admittance and disappearing permissions, this movie is proudly and gloriously someone's fault. ~ An arrival numb to departure, Christian Tafdrup's Speak No Evil is an out-of-body duet unsung by people too close to partnership and camaraderie to see a single evil let alone name any tune not already on another's tongue. It is important that a film this alone remain within itself at length, or forever, and with performances and visuals that achieve both the hermetic and wild, it painfully and almost perfectly leaves itself an inheritance of inaction and etiquette enough to afford its callous but necessary payoff. ~ Anxious and dedicated, Ti West’s Pearl is a brutally loyal exploration of isolation and madness wherein genesis and exodus are unsure which started what. Mia Goth levels heaven and brings up the hell with a performance in so much local pain that what lands becomes less alien the more it invades. For all its blood and baptism, West is careful what is shown, and there is one scene so brave and so held by Goth that it unglues the eye and something in every body seems to rip on its own. Sickness is here, but has nothing on sadness. ~
Had the inner and outer honor of saying something toward Erin Wilson's 'Blue'. Inclusion is the fullest art. Lovely book. ~ Praise for Blue: Invigorating, inventive, and remarkably honest, Blue sparks from “only the suggestion of a few bones” “a strong urge to know / each magnificent unraveling spire in pure light.” These poems tell the story of a life at risk of spilling over the edge of the page, capturing the magnitude of a restless, relentless search for both wound and healing. These are poems born of a kind of wrought faith that, despite all the breaking, language still might bring us closer to each other, and closer to ourselves. Wilson has given us a heady, intoxicating experience, a fascinating collision of tradition and innovation, all exquisitely layered in self, art, tenderness, and a rich testament to the ever-present need for risk and empathy. — John Sibley…
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Anxious and dedicated, Ti West’s Pearl is a brutally loyal exploration of isolation and madness wherein genesis and exodus are unsure which started what. Mia Goth levels heaven and brings up the hell with a performance in so much local pain that what lands becomes less alien the more it invades. For all its blood and baptism, West is careful what is shown, and there is one scene so brave and so held by Goth that it unglues the eye and something in every body seems to rip on its own. Sickness is here, but has nothing on sadness.
Being a parent is terrifying. Always that hearing, plain and songless, some version of There were times I could've made your life easier, but didn't. I didn't have money. Someone was sick. I saw the least of those my age travel as the same fuck every time. I didn't want to. I loved you because I loved you too much. Angelic laziness. The blank immediacy of everything fathered. Touch died in my hands. I was a better person when I didn't try to get sleep. It might be true. Here is where I pretend to believe in god because I'm older, have pain that moves before I get there, and can't swallow at night. Here is where I say if your child's illness makes them rare Be terrified and sing near the ghost your terror prays to. Our sleep is lost to a finished nowhere.
kingsoftrain 