the untouchable redness
of certain
rabbits
the sunburnt scar on a fisherman’s arm
her child
cracks
in a lifeboat
egg
after egg, her memory
has
that dream
to which
the hangman
gave
his word
by the time the robots believe in god, some of us want to be here. Misty keeps ripping her clothes off to make us think she’s cutting herself. I am not in love with her.
–
my son
his stomach
is a nightmare
–
Misty says making it hard is like pulling ticks from an owl. Misty says it is up to us to find the woman carrying the statue of her frozen brother.
–
a. act like a baby, not an indian
b. eat the way eating was born
in more
than two
nightmares
now
I’ve been
towel dried
by a father
whose baby
was given
a brick
for sounding
/ scrapegoat
this word
at mirror’s
grave
25% off all print books on LULU today (thru the 24th) with coupon code of AUG2016
mine are there, including my collection [MOON tattoo], here:
http://www.lulu.com/shop/barton-smock/moon-tattoo/paperback/product-22634440.html
review of MOON tattoo:
reading from MOON tattoo:
/
some poems from [MOON tattoo]:
[least]
there I was
lightweight, eyesore
baby satellite
and baby
drum
imagination’s
dull witness
my hair
prematurely
cat-torture
grey
my person
the length
of a sandbox
shovel
teeth
a tooth, a commandment
from the past
lives
of milk
~
[fathers]
to see a stone
as ruin’s
pursuit
of aftermath
one must share
this dream
of arriving
on earth
to pray
~
[emphasis]
the field
where father
sold
from a grounded
helicopter
a fog
machine
to one
whose pregnancy
had not
ended / the field
where brother
found
in a condom
a piece
of chalk / the field
sorta
field
like
with its puppies
and its trash / yeah
there is something to be said
I don’t know what
to echo’s
first
love / the dizzy
spells
of deer
~
[harrower]
it is easier now that I know I was never going to be a better person. if I once called poetry the grieving arm that ends in five short complaints, I am sorry. I watch my son lick the space on the table where he’ll put his cheek. it is not for me to believe he is a sign of warnings to come. the distant memory of his tongue is not mine to betray. I want to kiss you to the sound of god counting footfalls on a mountain path. for one, I have never been completely covered in bruises. also, I was in the spotlight when my mother was asked to describe a sponge. instead, she identified the break in the letter where a father changed pens and childhood as the longing of Eve.
~
[speaks]
a ghost on the sincerity of fear
a sleepwalker
on hibernation
god on faith, acolyte
to wheelchair
a listener to a mime
of the yawn
that tricks
grief
~
[the sensation]
days after rape is celebrated for having
no
anniversary / mom
stops looking
at her feet
~
days before I keep it from my ghost that I am in the wrong
person / dad
tells me that if I concentrate hard enough I can get god’s fingers stuck in a bowling ball
~
[proto]
the boy
there shoving
rocks
up his nose
ask him
how many pills
his father
took
at gunpoint
zero
pills
zero
the number
of clowns
the boy
has seen
give birth, one
god
to a thing
refused
medicine
a smallness
that skips
a brain
a stuffed creature from god’s cage
–
sickness, the second person to forget my dream
mom in the hospital is asking a half-lost boy if he knows about the band-aid keeping her skull together. the boy is afraid and I get that. her hands are confused or small or both. I give the boy a cigarette but yank it back when I see he’s been here before. could god maybe leave a thing untouched. behind us a mummy with one ear
still visible
is crawling with parents to a place.
if touch can end its own pregnancy
if it was
in fact
the strawman’s
earthquake
during which
I gave
as instructed
birth
to what
would repair
lightning
then yes
beware
the wary
dog
kingsoftrain 