( some further words on caregiving in the a.m. w/ odd but maybe not so odd appearance by Ethan Hawke
more, on
so up late/early with the hauntspeak of worry and general sense of appropriate doom but also appropriate play and how there is laughing and being silly and the reason no one tells you how lonely it all is beforehand is all in the words before & hand so here I am still in the mathafter of this dream where I was being chased by a demon and I had this oversized tote bag with all my stuff in it and I'm running in and out of closets and jumping turnstiles and the bag is just keeping me from being my fastest self and I end up in a hotel room hallway and out of a door on my left emerges Ethan Hawke and he takes the bag from me, empties it, and in the bag is a smaller bag...and he puts all my stuff in the smaller bag and says…
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maker 2 the hand the doorknob teaches to be naked. How did I say this - maker 3 animals that do and animals that don't get insomnia. The gunsellers in the smaller churches
maker 1 The again-grief of grief’s knowing that it’s too old to be given to its mother. Suicide’s underwater wristwatch. The pill to replace a sock puppet’s eye.
We’re All Going To The World’s Fair has to it an unworried precision that had me thinking I might have forgotten to shut down, in another life, an electric toothbrush. If any pulse is taken, it’s the pulse of separation and director Jane Schoenbrun is songbook tender and secretly protective enough to hum the art of this film into the disconnected wrists of those whose online has no off. Schoenbrun and lead Anna Cobb make of knowing a current terror and no sky here falls that hasn’t been dropped. Cobb, with deadpan abstraction, gives a performance worth of sleep’s eternal jump-scare and works with the film outside of the film to put an end to vice-versa that we might more blankly keep those who are constantly notified away from those who appear by looking at the vanished. - While keeping confession pinned beneath the unholy ripple of Tim Roth's flickering muscle of a performance, Resurrection, as guided and committedly freed by director Andrew Semans, is a film of secret chaos and bodily left turns that lovingly loses its permission to a possessed and wholly overtaken showing from Rebecca Hall. While surely mad and caringly unpredictable, it wouldn't be able to talk its tongues without the work that Grace Kaufman does as a child who moves the happening from under the accident with a waiting lonely enough to cradle the hurting young and uncarried old. - Elegantly untouched by director Nikyatu Jusu, who knows that stories are owed their belongings, Nanny is a delayed stunner of a film that never feels behind or slow but instead, and in line with the spiritual and physical fluidity of Anna Diop's fictile performance, stops and starts in a depth that feels both timeworn and newly doomed.
\/ GHOSTALGIA A drop of blood lands in an eye-sized field. Imagine waking up to cry. Hide the hidden ant of your son’s loneliness. /\ TWO POEMS ABOUT TWO POEMS I give god enough to imagine me naked. Fish and bird are loose in the same mirror. My children, Object and Permanence, examine my spotless body like aliens who cannot hurt their own but want to. Their mother’s decoy has a clock distracted by time and their mother swims to have no ghost. Suicide. All those dates I didn’t. \/ SO SANG father paints an abstract jesus. my sister bites at the shoulder strap of her bra. my brothers to keep from crumbling are sharing bread. I draw a violinist. a dog at the neck of its owner. - in our imaginings gutted baseballs became the skulls of small animals through which the wind called heads. - a refrigerator rocks in a junkyard. either the door has jammed, or she is pregnant. - a cement wall scraped in passing by one with a stick is the love we have for father - depression is a dog whistle. I miss dinner sounding it out. /\
country 18 We've the same last thought Death makes nothing ~ country 19 Hunger cuts its own hair But can't save time
The hole god says is coming, isn't. I still cannot sleep if I think someone can see my mouth. Earlier, a tunnel was using a tunnel to unmiss abstraction. Take the hands out of your poems.
My new and selected work blood to bathe us in its blue past is available now. Noah M Smock and Aidan C Smock did the cover images, and Noah also did a few animations for some selected verses/poems. blood to bathe us in its blue past May 2022 poems new and selected 217 pages PAY WHAT YOU WANT can be purchased via paypal (bartsmock@gmail.com) or CashApp: $BartonSmock or Venmo: @Barton-Smock-2 Copies for review are available upon request made to bartonsmock@yahoo.com Animations are here, here, and here Covers 1 (Noah), 2 (Noah), and 3 (Aidan), below:
and, a reading
country 17 a ghost with a nosebleed left by god to milk away
kingsoftrain 