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December 14, 2017 / barton smock

scansion

it feels wrong to pray in an ambulance

hear god / all the time

December 14, 2017 / barton smock

{MODE}

barton smock's avatarkingsoftrain

call for submissions {isacoustic*}

https://isacoustic.wordpress.com/

THING:

submit no less than [3] and no more than [7] pieces (poems, prose, poetics) to: isacousticsubmissions@gmail.com

/poems can be in the body of the email or attached as PDF, doc, docx

//include a brief and non-clever bio

~

in order to be published, [3] of the poems in the submission must be selected by the editors*

*this applies only to unsolicited submissions

/all three poems will be published in one post

//postings will occur weekly or bi-weekly

~

payment for a selected submission is 15.00 (5.00 per poem)

/payment will be made within one month of the posting

//previously published and simultaneous submissions are okay

///response time is 3 days ///please inquire if that time passes without

////whether rejected or accepted for publication, there is no waiting period for submitting multiple times

~

every three months, the editors will self-publish a journal…

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December 13, 2017 / barton smock

poem exhausted by its title

he knows
it should flower
but he was born

open, what

is he saying, I

can’t call
every bomb
my mother

December 13, 2017 / barton smock

frost

as one might misplace
the remains
of a non
muscular
child, there is

in the spiritual ache
of a gas station
a form

reshaped
by the work
of its leaving

December 13, 2017 / barton smock

standing over the first deer

god
a souvenir
of man’s
absence, brain

a sick
star, my blood

covered
blood

December 12, 2017 / barton smock

{f.}

10% off all print books at Lulu thru December 14th with coupon code of LULU10

my newest is there / {everything I touch remembers being my hand}

http://www.lulu.com/shop/barton-smock/everything-i-touch-remembers-being-my-hand/paperback/product-23443703.html

~~~

and, some poems, from the book:

[food] ~ partial ~

the first person to use these steps went down these steps. violence is the new past. I see a dove and think god will never know who it was ate his crushed light bulb. I betray my ear. the seashell of the stomach.

I try, but can’t make my bed. mom says maybe I’m grief. after coming back to touch me, she wishes herself a bird.

I hope she eats.

what
will I never
see

lost
arachnid, a triangle

drawn
by others-

my legs make me lonely.

dream, put me down.

~~~

[alas, touch]

sound’s shy historian, digger

of a hole
for the mouth

~~~

[daydreamer and the boy with extra blood]

wind’s childhood, nothing’s

gift exchange

December 12, 2017 / barton smock

repast

god as the complete
thought
I shared
with death…

skull
short
for squirrel

December 12, 2017 / barton smock

{MODE}

call for submissions {isacoustic*}

https://isacoustic.wordpress.com/

THING:

submit no less than [3] and no more than [7] pieces (poems, prose, poetics) to: isacousticsubmissions@gmail.com

/poems can be in the body of the email or attached as PDF, doc, docx

//include a brief and non-clever bio

~

in order to be published, [3] of the poems in the submission must be selected by the editors*

*this applies only to unsolicited submissions

/all three poems will be published in one post

//postings will occur weekly or bi-weekly

~

payment for a selected submission is 15.00 (5.00 per poem)

/payment will be made within one month of the posting

//previously published and simultaneous submissions are okay

///response time is 3 days ///please inquire if that time passes without

////whether rejected or accepted for publication, there is no waiting period for submitting multiple times

~

every three months, the editors will self-publish a journal of the poems posted in those months. contributors will receive a copy.

~

what the editors are looking for:

image-based absence.

/structurally sound offhandedness.

//clarity, yes, but not necessarily reliable.

///purpose.

~

contact/submit: isacousticsubmissions@gmail.com

if interested in being interviewed, or having a chapbook or book reviewed, send inquiry to same submission email

facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/Isacoustic-192435501303710/

paypal donation link: https://www.paypal.me/BartonSmock
if donating, you can note the name of a contributor and the money will go to said contributor

~

CURRENTLY:

AT isacoustic*
https://isacoustic.wordpress.com/

CONTRIBUTORS:

Jon Cone

and the heart-ache
that occupies the land is yours alone in hope. – {from} YOU ARE NOT LATE, IT IS ONLY THE PRELUDE THAT PLAYS

person Jon Cone, four poems

/

Adam Hughes

Tonight the fugitive gods limp
away, – {from} Kemper Street Hymns

person Adam Hughes, four poems

//

Leanne Drapeau

the body broken,
poured out. – {from} love has all its teeth intact

person Leanne Drapeau, three poems

///

Agnieszka Mauch

I can’t
move my arms enough to create a
notion of the sea – {from} FURTHER DISRUPTIONS

person Agnieszka Mauch, two poems

////

Amelia Kester

I will find
the soft people – {from} BLACKBERRIES

person Amelia Kester, one poem

/////

Brian Dawson

sway against forgotten statues
until all that is left is the sibilance of old secrets. – {from} Nine

person Brian Dawson, four poems

//////

REVIEWS:

They Were Bears – poems – Sarah Marcus

Set to Music a Wildfire – poems – Ruth Awad

Calling a Wolf a Wolf – poems – Kaveh Akbar

Many Full Hands Applauding Inelegantly – poems – Darren C Demaree

December 11, 2017 / barton smock

1995

and poem looked to me like the eyesight that stayed behind. claw and wing were the oars of my father’s blank craft. every boy in Ohio was a girl in a bookstore caring for the latest creature of a flat god. sadness hadn’t yet moved on from its stick figures and mothers were still blowing into perfectly round balloons. pale dog drank from a paint can. color could see, and see only, the future. a pinkness left my brother for the wrong kind of milk. sister had been hugging those angels

couldn’t bend their arms. zero

(that wizard
of the non
event)

was buying up land.

December 10, 2017 / barton smock

I have nothing like a film has nothing

her eyes

loot
the imagination