I'm not
close
to anyone
Without Jesus I don’t think God recovers the password of every angel. I’m poor and I yell at people. Melancholy nonsense. It’s the blue comes inside the blue. A dove is bitten by a moth. A baby cries for a baby out. Language won’t tell you what to say. My cigarette has two dreams
plastic
and arthritis)
I eat until food touches food.
A real gun
should do more.
Your mother sleeps to mourn the secret ghost of your death
Horse
has its blurry
life
The killing, the movies, the drinking. A spotlight stolen by a man in a deer costume. My son saying he wants to live at home until his brother dies. God’s dream, too small.
/
rocks have the softest shadows, 237 pages
poems, Dec 2020
can be purchased via paypal (bartsmock@gmail.com)
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untouched in the capital of soon, 187 pages
poems, Sept 2021
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blood to bathe us in its blue past, 217 pages
poems new and selected, May 2022
can be purchased via paypal (bartsmock@gmail.com)
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apartures, 125 pages
poems, January 2023
can be purchased via paypal (bartsmock@gmail.com)
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deer as permission to die in ohio, 43 poems
chapbook, April 2023
can be purchased via paypal (bartsmock@gmail.com)
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naked in dog years, 55 pages
April 2024
can be purchased via paypal (bartsmock@gmail.com)
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57
Letters to Ethan Hawke, or I wanted to stop saying god
letters 1-57
August 2024
can be purchased via paypal (bartsmock@gmail.com)
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The Crow's Book of Wrists, 193 pages
August 2024
can be purchased via paypal (bartsmock@gmail.com)
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angel tantrum, 171 pages
April 2025
can be purchased via paypal (bartsmock@gmail.com)
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Eden created time so Eve could end god’s suffering. I only worry about my son’s death because I can’t leave his dying to others. That’s the alcohol being silent. Watching is just seeing a cyclops cry. Fuck that kid, is what you’re saying. Skin is the real winner. The bone has a bone’s name.
There is no god left for god to impress. At night I grow in my arm an arm for my son. My dream lasts for three days. An animal forgetting to drink. A perfect stick crying itself white in a hell of dog heads. Sex doesn’t know what this poem is about. Eating is a shape death knows to eat around. Heaven only looks abandoned. Imagine a shooting range. Not that one.
A deer
helps lightning
run
from a ghost
A deer helps lightning run from a ghost
I have a gun
but the world is empty
I am still smaller than the god of my aim
Wait
Regret
has a moth
to bury
In an emptiness designed by no one
tried
to print
touch
