anyway I really miss my grandmothers, my grandfathers, my father-in-law, and oh how I miss my aunt and lately the writing idk it's just not all there but I think that is part of it you know the distance the lack of wording the void that not even absence will throw itself into but I just want to say that while all this loss to me is like losing a place or an eyepatch or the x on some root, these losses mean to others whole fucking mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers and limbs without phantom and I just don't know what to say except that I am speechless at the tip of so many tongues and that I hope you are all able to language your way backward and through
city 33 Bagging the bright mouse in the deer faith of my youth - city 34 Tooth decay carried by god over the capital of After - city 35 All secrecy genetic Proof is our last ghost - city 36 A running shower that prays impossibly on the body of our lowest sibling for the return of a bomb-maker's homesick drone - city 37 An angel burned for soundproofing crows - city 61 One dollhouse for another The noises leave I keep the same double life Dog's paw, child's knee The rifle's Tilted field - city 67 Dying, touch will ask to attend the hand's silent film debut - city 69 Crow, with seashell - city 70 or 71 The short past of my body in the small of yours A baby chewing on its hand in pile of leaves - city 72 and 73 The boy has one mouse…
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country 13 A glove passed from baby to baby or a light switch left for nearby angels. A hand in the middle of being a hand
country 12 We throw seashells into a cornfield. There are children we want back
country 11 We argue agonology in the exploded ghostgrief of god. Repair is winter's last machine
country 10 100 poems about time travel: The child young enough to be on my hip is waving to the nobody in the microwave. The dead have a past. But it's empty
in heaven the less famous animals create so silently that god stays when of course there is a god
country 9 Two poems about his gun: You can like your body but only if we can see it all at once. Sleep is the new sleep
Ohio sexuality: A private pencil erasing nobodies from a blue past. A way for fish to keep passwords from God. Far notes: The bomb is never here long enough to know it’s found us. Son in bird years you’d be dead. A stomach holds on to its hand-shaped sleep. ~~~~~ BOOKS, self published: rocks have the softest shadows, 237 pages poems, Dec 2020 untouched in the capital of soon, 187 pages poems, Sept 2021 PAY WHAT YOU WANT can be purchased via paypal (bartsmock@gmail.com) or Venmo: @Barton-Smock-1 or CashApp: $BartonSmock pdfs at GUMROAD ~~~~~ excerpt at Anvil Tongue of 'rocks have the softest shadows' some poetry at SangamHouse interview, at neonpajamas interview, at The Collidescope
