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.
still have two privately self-published chapbooks {BASILISK; the accepted field} available in hard copy and free to anyone making said request to bartonsmock@yahoo.com
~
most recent full-length collections:
{name calling}
9.00, 110 pages, published March 2017
http://www.lulu.com/shop/barton-smock/name-calling/paperback/product-23117082.html
~
{paw five}
9.00, 130 pages, published May 2017
http://www.lulu.com/shop/barton-smock/paw-five/paperback/product-23198602.html
~
a poem from {name calling}:
[the boy-sleep of his hands]
/ a pair of scissors in one room or a gun in two. a thumb war’s lame spider. four rootless prayers drawn on an echo. four awestruck sisters caressing with their ears the undeveloped skull of an infant. melancholy’s condoms. flowers for the arm-wrestler’s inoculated phantom.
~
two poems from {paw five}:
[ballerina]
dog whistle, nothing’s church-bell:
my mother, handcuffed
still worships
wasp
~
[mothers, acoustic]
we are maybe
inside
an Ohio
factory
childless and ready
for a refresher
on orphan
etiquette-
word is
there came
a cow
View original post 12 more words
the grotesque cloud
of birth
the treehouse beatings…
for what
on earth
did I make
these faces
it won’t occur to me
how clean
is hell
(the eyes) (have arms) (but not) (hands)
the ghosts of my son
they get
along
mouth a souvenir from the exodus of shapes-
her mom
ate something
blue
