baby
by the ear
and the door
by its knob
–
in my bible my birdlike nose
–
(a small hand wrapped in a scarecrow’s wing)
we stood back to back on a trapdoor and waited for someone to cut our hair. I described my hands and you your face. I yawned and we became family. my ticks mourn your lice.
15% off all print books on Lulu today with coupon code of LULU15
I recently self-published a work there called {the boy who touched all the eggs} which includes three previous full-length collections as well as some newer poems. book preview on site is book entire. if you’d like a free PDF, or a free hard copy if reviewing, please send a request to me as such at bartonsmock@yahoo.com
book is available here:
some poems, from it, below:
[toothache]
wrapped head-to-toe in toilet paper, he’d still ask for a cigarette. does this kid scream suicide to you? it’s not sexual. the name of my animal
is shape. remember the face we saw in the bruise?
~
[axiom]
I am the weakest person my brothers don’t know. I go with them under a blanket we won’t all come out of. hell of a word, hovercraft, but not a…
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a female bodybuilder is yelling at her father for refusing to turn off the mower. a half-naked boy on a bike coasts past them both in the direction of a woman who’s professed to have a snake that’s all ears. I am in a third floor apartment crookedly hugging a window air-conditioner I nightly dream has fallen. my kids are together on a bottom bunk under a blanket stabbing each other with a pair of scissors from the mailman’s last meal. the neighborhood widows lean on separate swing-sets and shape their memories of toy pianos. I can hear it now my brother saying that any and all travel is anti-childhood as he explains to my mother why it is that grief gives god closure over exit to the subconsciously alone.
god exists because my body was never found.
a lonely boy
hears fire
yell. I point
and babies
crawl.
poverty is nothing more than jesus pouring milk from a soldier’s helmet into the nest of a delirious and elsewhere bird. how long have you had that invisible mirror? I can’t taste blood. fever is my mother’s crown.
for John-Paul, Noah, Jacob
I have avoided you
my brothers
like salt
will
a bruise.
I have used language as the sole mourner of message.
I have written more of dead poets than of the free hand
of a disabled
son. I love
(not memory’s
confused
predator
but its kingdom
of broken)
bread.
