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February 11, 2024 / barton smock

missing machine

for Erik, Dylan, Faith

In a touching move, the dream stops three times for the homesick creator’s dead god. Hunger is a day of the week. In Ohio, laundromats eat nothing and disappear. Beauty calls distance from the body, but the body does all the work. Every poem about pain is long.
February 9, 2024 / barton smock

machine machine

The wings didn't grow.

My stomach
tried to help.

The back of my throat
whitened
its tender
cross.

There was a loose hammer
in the backseat
for years
before I stopped

for that hoary
bat
long nailed
to a skateboard.

The back of your mother's head
is safe.

Heaven. Hell. We go to both.
February 8, 2024 / barton smock

words toward ‘My Jewel Box’ by Ursula Andkjær Olsen, translated by Katrine Øgaard Jensen

My Jewel Box
by Ursula Andkjær Olsen
translated by Katrine Øgaard Jensen
Action Books, 2022

While reading the mouth-bathed insertions as they are mid-written in Ursula Andkjær Olsen’s My Jewel Box, I have this dream in a later body where I can be seen watching my veins do nothing in the same lab where it was once proven that god was buried alive. What valid surrogacy is this? As translated by Katrine Øgaard Jensen, it is a surrogacy of photogenic pain and pain’s plural. Of struck snake and of birth being both have and have-not. Adornment and strangling, says Olsen, says Jensen, and slowly suddenness is everywhere. I can ghost people I've never met. In this verse, in channels of otherharm, dolls dream but only if you notice. Maps are made from the worry that one’s anatomy is disappearing, not as we speak, but as we are silent. Words mean what sounds mean. I sucked on a penny as a child and my salt brain loneliness called it fruit. Are these your cow negatives? Mask loses a tooth. Mask has a cavity. In the reading, I’m not sure that I’ve ever had an allowable blue thought. In the after, I’m hyperaware of time’s inability to be present. Somewhere in between, or in the during, there is a restart of an irreplaceable beginning and it is here the work makes vaccines of permission and recounts, perhaps, touch’s second chance. This is the third book in Ursula Andkjær Olsen’s trilogy, with the first being Third-Millennium Heart and the second Outgoing Vessel, each of which were also translated by Katrine Øgaard Jensen. The body has a body it uses to find bodies. God will get his unneeded rest, I’m sure.

~

reflection by Barton Smock
February 8, 2024 / barton smock

second machine

I watch movies naked and lightning tattoos god into becoming an addict.   

February 7, 2024 / barton smock

first machine

I seashell myself into the wreckage of the angel’s elbow. Death’s memory and god’s memory are switched at birth. I lie to my mom. There’s a pill that makes me not take pills.
February 7, 2024 / barton smock

words toward Skyler Osborne’s ‘Rejoicer’ (Driftwood Press, 2023)

REJOICER
poems, Skyler Osborne
Driftwood Press 2023

Fuck you, Skyler Osborne. Just not kidding. Your dreamhouse chainsaw, zoo of the void. Fuck your shadow with nowhere to be and any of the future undead who’ve already checked out in the space that takes up the body. Just not not kidding. Rejoicer is a toothache quaking with joy. I don’t know what midwestern means, but I know what midwestern stands against. And this verse is a protection spell made historic by aftermath. The poems themselves become poems somewhere in the middle and any reader will probably have to restart to get any kind of closure. That’s how good the imagery is and how doomed its predictions. Its locality gives tomorrow an imperfect now and its look forward weighs itself in animals filled with the animals too slowly named. My gravedigger dies forever and I sing. I can’t love my teeth. Can’t pull joy from the air. But I can love this unshaken work. And I do rejoice.

~

reflection by Barton Smock
February 7, 2024 / barton smock

( some work, unworked

Thanks to Daniel Cyran for asking me about mornings and breakfast and routines and posting some work by myself and others HERE at Stark and Saint Redwood
February 6, 2024 / barton smock

belonging machine

God
up late
with silent
babies
February 5, 2024 / barton smock

hope machine

You liked
a song
and people
died.

Art doesn't exist.

The world's
not old.
February 4, 2024 / barton smock

nostalgia for the void machine

No one can dream about god. Water can’t be touched. Time makes itself into a seed that grief never plants. Death fails as a garden but not as death. Cheekbone, ransom, kneecap. I was sick for awhile and now want to love things.