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September 14, 2020 / barton smock

our patient childhoods like two churches left in the same tornado

and god a meal
that switches
bodies

September 9, 2020 / barton smock

some invisible second

that an insect
misremembers

September 8, 2020 / barton smock

jesus keeps dying

in the song, my father goes in and out of sleep on a stretcher that his mother took from a movie set.

I like that my teeth protect my teeth.

September 3, 2020 / barton smock

afternotes

touch is at first
a bowl
and then
a smaller
bowl

as
for sleep
I’ll die
in yours

she writes
to notice
nothing

August 26, 2020 / barton smock

for the short time that existence pretends to be you

god and pain have the same god

August 14, 2020 / barton smock

no great turtle to straighten the dead

no great turtle
to straighten
the dead
no
not here
in Ohio

an Ohio
that eats
its weight
in spiders
an Ohio

of slow
obsessions
effortless
sorrows

a lifejacket
on fire
a pebble
named
after blood’s
ear
a thunderclap

the late
crawl
of a dizzy
child

August 11, 2020 / barton smock

a slow land

in the mother’s dream
a brother and a sister
watch a movie
without a name

a movie that between them
is called
This Is Not
A Dream

there’s no one
in the movie

water holds an animal
and sometimes
there are buildings
that buildings
describe

death gets to name every baby but its own

August 7, 2020 / barton smock

prolonged attempts at coping

mostly this movie is about what I don’t want to see in a movie

–

son is trying to hold behind his ear a slice of orange (however long you think a day is

his hands are by it
getting smaller

–

talent doesn’t keep God awake

–

what the angel does with its half of the caterpillar…

(is it still
all about
location

the shop
of your
forgetting

August 6, 2020 / barton smock

my eye lost in the yield of yours

a raindrop
trapped
in ankle’s
dream

August 3, 2020 / barton smock

{ Poetry Against All ~ a diary ~ Johannes Göransson }

barton smock's avatarISACOUSTIC*

Poetry Against All
a diary
Johannes Göransson
Tarpaulin Sky Press, 2020

~

I am no expert and have little idea what to say about impossible books. Johannes Göransson’s Poetry Against All is one such book. Is many such books. Little idea does not mean I can be quiet. What is impossible? A safe child. A coroner who disappears to plan simple kidnappings for the elaborately still. I continue. I stop. Göransson keeps this diary alive. Fossil porn. A more exact resurfacing. Some things poke through; holes in movies, a mask thrown from a moving dream, a photograph taken by a hand. I don’t know how this draws, but know I am drawn. But am also, surrounded. Held and carried. I might have it backward. Some prenatal eternity, some austere intercourse, some uprooted sickness ghosted by certain immunities unique to the tourist’s stunt double. I have only recently forgotten how to…

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