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September 16, 2021 / barton smock

(untouched in the capital of soon

Available within a week or two, approx 175 pages, first cover of three to five, possibly. Cover art by my son Noah Smock. Rabbits, death, god, time...I think he might understand some things.






And, cover number 2, by son Aidan Smock. He knows me well, as well. All the rabbit loneliness I can take.

September 14, 2021 / barton smock

city,

city 139

After a star it's wrong to name a rabbit

The mouth to hide from god invents the kiss 

September 12, 2021 / barton smock

city,

city 138

There are days nothing happens to Adam and there are days nothing happens to Eve. It doesn't take long to lose interest in the last thing known to have used god as bait. Touch is the bird of nowhere. The outside can't survive outside.
September 10, 2021 / barton smock

city,

city 137

Spotless you in the dream you'll use to shorten your later dreams. 

Loneliness as it describes each thing
in one 
word.

Child whose skin is never older than its first food memory.

No tools in the angel's cave.

September 9, 2021 / barton smock

city,

city 136

a bitemark goes from one sea-thing to another

someone hates your body

& a toothache 
makes one limp
September 5, 2021 / barton smock

city,

city 135

Of a ghost that can dream
I can only
dream.

Eyesight was god's weakest bone.
September 3, 2021 / barton smock

city,

city 133

I am less than a mile old when I have all the time in the world to miss nothing

*

city 134

Is mom movie rain or real real snow

September 2, 2021 / barton smock

city,

city 132

A snake looks a thing stuck with ending its life. There are no snakes here but you can lose your appetite in the wind. Also 

sleep stops breathing.

August 30, 2021 / barton smock

city,

city 131

Reincarnation came close, but God has yet to experience loss. This is where human pain was born. If there is a tree made from the nights I look my children awake, eat what you want. Hide anywhere. We only see you when you swim.
 

August 29, 2021 / barton smock

city,

city 130

One parent is grief and one is touch. Years pass without a thunderstorm being put to sleep. A son moves into his body to bathe. He scratches his own arm and tries to look at his eyes. His thumbs hurt and we tell him a picture has just been snapped inside the closest museum of the suddenly sick. Because there is only a second time for everything, I thought you knew we were here. Touch is teaching hand the history of again. It's grief's turn to be grief.