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November 13, 2020 / barton smock

from ( diets of the resurrected )

The boy balances a basketball on his head outside his father’s bar. His mother is somewhere a girl on a trampoline who sings to a white pup named Fossil. The baby he keeps seeing hasn’t done much beyond biting an arm and eating a crayon. His abandoned sister is giving birth so calmly she is not blown away by the fact that it’s only her second time wearing the blindfold her angels wear to fish. His brother is in therapy to process the loss of others who think we’re gods when we smoke. I joined the boy once to look at an empty crib. He drank tea from eggshells and I declined. Nothing goes missing, he said, when your hair is a nightgown. I swatted him to let him know I was dying, then swatted him again to let him know I would live. The tea was gone. The rest is sadness.

November 12, 2020 / barton smock

blood notes

at the longest
for god, does water

dream it’s found

the spot
where ghost
went in

November 10, 2020 / barton smock

blood notes

I worry that God is not nostalgic.

I forget
near bathwater

my son’s

Name a movie missed by a ghost.

November 5, 2020 / barton smock

blood notes

there is no earlier dream
no slipping
from the past

of every beast we haven’t eaten

god has two sticks
and echo

all snow was born in a cigarette

November 3, 2020 / barton smock

blood notes

I can tell by my arm that I am not always there when they burn my cigarette.

Abortion. Tire Swing.

I don’t know all seven stages of staying warm in Ohio.

Loneliness changes often the name of its creator.

November 2, 2020 / barton smock

from ( diets of the resurrected )

Ohio handcuffs:

two poor people
trading facts
about circles

October 30, 2020 / barton smock

your mother bends to kiss a pillow for sleeping with your stomach

perhaps you know
it already
that when jesus
got to heaven
he was still
part human

October 29, 2020 / barton smock

( older desperations from which much has been removed. including titles


the quiet woman mothers a silence gone rogue

and names
her kid
to death


pull from your habit forming past. be the bomb god’s yet to wear. eat from the angel’s dream the only fish that can stop at nothing. open your mouth

then look at your son. call it photography. if spotted, be a monster.


I am not god but I do have insomnia. mother can do in her madness what most can in sleep. father hollers at a soldier suffering from memory gain.


I throw baby brother’s rattle over a moving tank.

count for the dead
their black


the baby was found, after the fire, alive and well in the oven. god showed his face until, again, the world made him hungry. at the time, the painter of babies was a baby herself. her brother had been dropped long ago by a man reaching for a foul ball. the sweet tooth’s bible was putting blood on a napkin.

you want grief that is a seashell of grief.


October 27, 2020 / barton smock

from ( diets of the resurrected )

to preserve
our obsession
with longing

this mark
death makes
on god

October 26, 2020 / barton smock

blood notes

I no longer sleep on my right side because it feels as if I’m too far from the earth that stopped my heart.

will do it

but you’ve got to give him a bone from the body of an angel.

I pretend to be sick because I believe that I am.