Skip to content
November 19, 2024 / barton smock

responsoria

My youngest brother sends me poems and they are bruises on a radar that’s having a secret nightmare and I am afraid that if I touch them they will be touched. I’m not an alcoholic. My food eats prayer to starve me. I haven’t heard too many in my family say Palestine and it makes me want to trick them into saying pain. I hate my son but in a very sonlike way. Others hate my son because they think he looks at the moon believing god made stuff. I haven’t been sleeping. It’s okay. My insomnia is a keyhole in the shape of my son’s access to angels. This is a death threat machine. A bomb scare machine. Tomorrow, fake the earth.   
November 18, 2024 / barton smock

goodbye I’m here

A white sock
cannot pray
for the rabbit’s
stomach.

Look at stuff and die.
November 16, 2024 / barton smock

words toward Kristyn Garza’s ‘Dictionary of Bodies’ (Gasher Press, 2024)

Dictionary Of Bodies
Kristyn Garza
Gasher Press, 2024

Wreath, wraith. Define an identified body. Plot knows how I got here. Here is a place that houses the danced around thing. That languages lostness into being lifted from a touchless tongue. Here is Kristyn Garza’s Dictionary Of Bodies. Nuance of trauma, ghosted latticework. Somehow is, somehow was. Time is a time machine. Garza is a poet of the invitingly unexplained. Ask and answer kneel on the same knee. Prose assigns its invisible birthmark and invents independence. Saying and speaking have a long distance relationship with brief evocations. What work. Have surface, save face, and share a firefly.

~

reflection by Barton Smock

November 16, 2024 / barton smock

I’ve always had to write quickly

is my son
alone

ask
November 15, 2024 / barton smock

my son in the calmest nightmare has seen a balloon

The disconnected god of blood 

The wasp of loss

I don’t have your headache, kid

A cigarette looks for its teeth
Sleep
for the older
wrist

of proximity’s
nearby
ghost
November 14, 2024 / barton smock

I can’t be sad and sad at the same time

Movies
lengthen god

Write high
November 13, 2024 / barton smock

responsoria

God is still a child. No one knows how to help. Angels doing deer impressions think about stopping. Your mother and father are alive.
November 13, 2024 / barton smock

snowteeth

A horse and a moth pass through heaven where heaven used to be 

All my friends are quiet
November 7, 2024 / barton smock

consumptions

I dream in longhand. Watch slasher movies to control death. No I will not be doing anything for my mental health. God was the first weapon meant to heal time. We don’t all live here. Blood reads but not with all this blood. Be last, be small. Hide your stomach from emptiness. Check your children for bones. Hairdryer for pills.
November 4, 2024 / barton smock

reflection on Darren C. Demaree’s ‘So Much More’ from Small Harbor Publishing (Nov 2024)

So Much More
Darren C. Demaree
Small Harbor Publishing (Nov 2024)

As it sings re-choired in the collection 'So Much More', Darren C. Demaree’s work is the starstuff of purpose and confrontation. Signs, tattoos, vacated crows. The un-reminded world. A shapeshifting violence that roots us to form. An offering of unrest carried in the body of a deerlike creature that touches nothing with its living while living in a believable church where sleep can be turned on and off by any two of three hooves. Demaree’s verse lets home take us home because there’s a second time to have nothing. No insect is a lost insect. We are not, and were not, long for heaven. There is no earth, but here we are. Our children lovely enough to be terrified.

~~
reflection by Barton Smock