in those moments when non-fiction scares only the grey brainchild of poverty
(that fucking angel disrobing a stone with fog…
please read
to feel
nothing
/
dying brother with microscope
last night
a horse
left Ohio
and waited
seven seconds
before
clopping back
(all cats had my sister’s tongue)
angels
had fingernails
and fish food
taste
/
palimpsest
illness
as diary
we
are underwater
where eating
was discovered
(this is our
joke
that on land
god is waiting
to cut
a birthday cake
for the non
born
the non
below…
our grief comes in pairs
to the animal
it looks
most like
/
ankle musics
i.
nothing’s unabsorbed twin
ii.
pronouns / for faith
iii.
a jester,
in night clothes, a jailed
iv.
fork…
v.
when was it
these mirrors
touched
/
(we are trying to limit
screen time
as our son
was known
as the one
being sad
for bigfoot
(it takes seconds for a bath
to fill
a mirror
with…
(I am trying to tell you that I went to the party
& that I swore there
on the lives
your children
led
(when dressed
as mine
poolside
one hears
a brother
tell a sister
it’s like tickling
a scarecrow
when do you
love god
I love god
while I’m eating
I have a mom
does everything
quickly
a father
who rubs his head
who thinks
every kid
on a bike
is a unicorn
the cigarettes
are gone
if I see
a spider
I see
it has the memory
of an angel
father likes to say that touch has lost its mind. mother
be like hunger
and forget
nothing.
(the boy is the boy who teaches death
to read
and I am sad
for death
for years
(in the toy aisle, in a circus
restroom, at the roll
of my son’s
spotless
eye, and at the gate
of the all
girl
cemetery
(also shyly
in the more traditional
babies
of god
(their hesitant
fatigue
cares
poetry collections, mine, self-published, are here: http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/acolyteroad
~
private publications are available via paypal (bartsmock@gmail.com) or https://www.paypal.me/BartonSmock, as such:
chapbook, [BASILISK], 64 pages $5.00
(Feb 2017)
chapbook, [the accepted field], 84 pages $5.00
(May 2017)
chapbook, [in this life another is you], 64 pages $3.00
(Oct 2017)
~
call for submissions: https://isacoustic.com
~
also:
{mood piece for baby blur} is a privately published work of mine consisting of 60 poems that is available to anyone donating 5.00 or more to my poetry journal {isacoustic*}
donation can be made, here:
https://www.paypal.me/BartonSmock
or it can be sent to (bartsmock@gmail.com)
be sure to provide a physical address, to include your name, for the send.
You can check out {isacoustic*}, here:
site: https://isacoustic.com/
facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/Isacoustic-192435501303710/
twitter: https://twitter.com/isacousticVOL
instagram: https://www.instagram.com/isacousticvol/
share, or keep secret.
~
PATREON
in the doing of a thing there is often a lull and in that lull a curvature of worry…
View original post 44 more words
Regis Louis Coustillac is poet living and writing in Cleveland, Ohio. His work has appeared in Brainchild Magazine. You may find him on Instagram @regis_coustillac
*-
If We Woke Without Our Names
They would call you dusk.
They would call you shadow
lengthened into mist.
They would call you fog on
the early road. They would call
me trillium. They would call you
creek bed filled with mud;
They would call me quartz,
lurking in the ripples.
They would call you lunar,
lover of reflected light.
They would call me constellation,
mangled story of stars.
If we woke without our names,
I would call you prism.
I would call you glass rainbow.
I would call you light that dances
along the spectrum of the living.
Kaleidoscope that turns with
the axis of the Earth. I would
call you opal, moonstone,
mosaic of memory and muscle.
I would run my hands…
View original post 203 more words
kingsoftrain 