I don’t
make things
I can’t
have
from
deer as permission to die in Ohio
OUTSIDES
The space between birth and death is the same for every creature. I say this lightly and I say this as two rooms enter my stranded room. Eating disproves god. Dream is a wasp that sells as its own a mosquito’s art. It’s okay you wanna catch the slow angel. I’ve never been alone and neither have you.
AGAINST INTERIORITY
The astronaut called to recut porn and the caterpillar to soften the palms of the crucified. The pill living in the pill you take. Toy noise from a phoneless hell. Blue doll, erasable wrist.
THE BULLET GOES THROUGH MORE PEOPLE THAN BEFORE
Cannibal on the
moon, ghost at the piano.
The rain gone missing.
BREATHING MACHINES MADE IN OHIO
Unending angel
of a terrified stomach.
Tadpole, eye’s daydream.
THE SLEEP GOD GETS
Lightning finds a vein.
Password sends a nude.
SMALL POEMS AGAINST DYING
The sleepwalker and the insomniac asking god to switch their hidden pregnancies.
A vaccine for object permanence.
The fly
my ghost
calls rain.
~
deer as permission to die in ohio
43 poems, pocketbook style
April 2023
collection is pay what you want
can be purchased via:
paypal (bartsmock@gmail.com)
or Venmo: @Barton-Smock-2
or CashApp: $BartonSmock
cover image by Noah M. Smock
When the alcohol
can’t sleep
it sleeps
in my car.
The wind’s
naked dream
stays touched
by snow. A snake
stops dying
in god’s
thigh
The boy points his pop-gun at the sex doll in the ice. Please stop killing them. I am Ohio’s weakest writer but please stop hurting them. I drink to worry twice over the double lives of those who say their pain is a three when their pain is a ten. God’s work is done. I’m just the creature that convinced my body. My dreams come to me. Already true.
god remembers
waiting
for the past
saying mom
no reason
Heaven is all pain
until you get there.
Dead angels hurt the earth.
I have spiders
and you
have wasps.
In the ambulance,
the kid sleeps on a door of hunger
to stay
awake.
I carry
in my mind
my mind.
It never knows.
I can’t
in the dream
open
your book.
My hands
so small
took time
to vanish.
When I say
I'm lonely
I just mean
I'm lonely.
There's so much to do
that I
can do.
I once read my entire body
with mosquito
bites.
It ends
and ends.
Please join me as I host the first of the I think I can't speak for everyone here reading series with featured writers NC Smock and Benjamin Niespodziany.
Reading will be held over Zoom on Sunday, April 21st, at 4pm EST.
Email blujawedsnake@gmail.com for Zoom link and open mic sign-up.
Benjamin Niespodziany is a Chicago-based writer whose work has appeared in the Wigleaf Top 50, Booth, Conduit, Indiana Review, and others. His debut poetry collection was released in 2022 through Okay Donkey and his novella of connected stage plays is out now with X-R-A-Y. You can find more at neonpajamas.com.
NC Smock lives and works in the community sector in Baltimore, Maryland. His creative writing efforts are mostly channeled into grants for community organizations. He is currently working on a written and spoken word project, No Arrival, which is anchored by his sketches and paintings. This project will soon be available in video and audio snippets, as well as a flip book where segments can be rearranged and read in any order. The project will be published under the name Wyeth Mann.
TOSKA
poems
Alina Pleskova
Deep Vellum Publishing 2023
Alina Pleskova’s inventive and non-recreated Toska is a simultaneously incoming and upcoming work versed in a voice thrice unreal. In the reading, I felt so distant from my own handwriting that I decided to not take notes. My worry began to worry, sure. But also, the hereness of my joy departed sweetly from two places at once. Pleskova’s writing is deeply spelled. Whether it’s the strange shortcuts that longing gathers to delay its arrival, or the stilled intimacy that leaves loneliness in a vehicle designed for reentry, Pleskova seems a first visitor of a remembered life and makes short agony of the current moment without timestamping our human, our outdated, anguish. Toska has better words for its words.
~
reflection by Barton Smock
kingsoftrain 