Barton D Smock
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I'm serious if you are.
my brother is the safe environment I’ve created for the history of my lord. political awareness, I mean, I mean, is a darkness. my eyeglasses tell me you’ve been to see a train station. do animals wait? several impatient years later, two blindfolded mouth-breathers walk cheek to cheek in an Ohio fog that combs forward worms the length of a screen name on craigslist. I am nearly pronouncing krokodil until my tongue disappears so I can pronounce it correctly for my mother’s not frostbit ear. as for the two, they are mistaken by the disembodied poetics of local policing as the trophy nose of an odd-for-these-parts moose. any re-enactment is my father the victim of a spirited birth.
what can god read to make him feel more human? then there’s this about how the nose and ears never stop growing. I can believe it because at desks even so calm some seem to be cowering. then you have an accepting friend and I have mine and they kiss in pockets of sadness sidestepped by tomboys who have their own issues like frogs. point wildly. it’s not a shame beauty fucked-up. I look sometimes like a different baby.
boy, you will think smoking makes a pearl in your gut. there will be three doctors like writing shacks constructed from memory. to each you will deny the existence of a one-way baseball. prognosis is a curse. when you are curled by infancy I will toss objects through a tire swing. by the way I am your father no one likes. pain is not the last room the world has. to be fair, pain is the last room
with a toothbrush. knowledge is a sick woman. she takes out her breast in a snowstorm.
some were spiking wrapped pieces of hard candy off a baby’s bare back. some were burping dolls and making physical notes. some were shoving their feet into small shoes right in front of a working conveyor belt. some had aches in their bodies that sounded like the popping of corn. some were fathers their fathers would’ve prevented. some were mothers unwanted by pregnancy. none were disabled. none were coordinates. a hash mark, an eyelash, she stood for the death of one man and finished the word she’d been pausing between.
my friend is a cemetery. his broken fingers are testaments to the boredom of wind. do you write to yourself in prison? your kid cannot scribble. he tries and it makes him fierce. I make heads or tails of him no matter. your mother came to me in a bowling ball. whispered about the dryer opening and out came a burning in your sister’s ear. things are tense. your father still cleans the sounds you make.
each nun my mother sees is shorter than the one after it. this too shall pass? name what came before. my father’s nightmare pregnancy. a baby so tiny it set sail on the lid of a toy dog’s battery pack belly. do tell. a baby so depressed it broke from the tractor beam and angered a normally whimsical race.
lost at land.
the second coming of self harm has entered a town called Both.
having a baby is a mouthful.
think of yourself as a journal death keeps.
with crocodile tears
for the alien
bear with me, a man was going house to house. a big handed hunch of a man. he was wanting to know if anyone in the immediate area had seen the bird he was talking about. his enthusiasm was off-putting and in the back of my mind downright scary. the look on a face when a door is opened is often the look of one to whom the lord has reappeared. I don’t think the man knew he was ruining the rareness of the day’s clarity. the bird itself was not his fault and the bird sighting could’ve happened to another. on a normal day a suspended woman sings above us. there is a before and an after and a bit of mystery to the meal obsessed.
imagine being told you cannot walk through a hospital’s emergency room.
imagine having to document every itch as if it’s where your body resides.
recommend 2013 titles in meth romance 2013.
attach a vagina to a person whose vagina gets maced for drug smuggling.
inside me, the baby
the phone is on
in my turned
at the top of the hill
a boy means
to hop on the disc
with his dog
I am too poor
as I come into someone else’s own, I agree to meet my brother at a clawfoot tub I hope is still there. I fill a bucket with water and leave it with my wife for good luck. I walk from the house in mild weather and become plain to you. I pass the mud my father’s eye goes without. I tire. I come to in my brother’s arms and his badge has left a mark on my cheek. sleep is like a slug I can’t overtake and then it is my tongue or in its privacy. brother roughs me into the tub headfirst so I can hear the highway. he preaches and they were followed by two sets of footprints until the footprints had to rest else they’d be too fat to die. these parts you're money or hush money.
we have come because you’ve been associated with sadness. try to pretend we’re here. as a kidnapper mum about being pregnant, you will soon have something to say to the microphone in your bra. I am the face of this operation. my lips are whites only like certain water fountains. thoughts on the whereabouts of the gun you own are superseded by images you dance to of babies born wearing mittens. in your father’s abandoned car you will be asked to recall the location of the buttons on the dashboard your brother showed himself to press. we love your brother. he invented a game, what was it?, kick if you’ve been muzzled by god.
I picture my father
lighting a cigarette
in the baby dark
of his bodily
on a motorcycle
not yet surrounded
I listen for my mother
of white owls
and of the hole
with a bottom
brushing its hair
in the lopsided
of my brother’s
and I plan
to make a stick
from no more
father takes a shower because he feels half full. in order to revere him in a detached way I have to run a hot bath and sit on the floor while holding a bar of soap with a plastic fork stuck in it and I have to be blind not to see it’s a sailboat. mother has to be blind not to see it’s an iron. I lift it to her unnoticed and there is only so long my hand can burn before it feels like a hand again. father makes his hands into bunny hands at his bare chest and hops into my mother who squeals and covers her mouth and allows her face to look as one who’s given up the ex-con. father removes his towel and she whips him with it and he goes naked laughing and swatting at hanging model planes the guns of which he reports to memory. she fixes him a plate of food knowing he’ll throw it from the roof and say he’d rather eat a bullet. when she is outside for the plate my father controls her with a remote he claims doubles as a detonator. she sees me kissing the ex-con and mouths goodbye like a paratrooper.
a short period of poorness is already underway when I enter to promise my dog and nod to my wife. dumb in the mouth I announce I am thinking behind. my shyness is a chair sent from a distant church. the one man in the room tells me I have a purpose and confides that he too is a rental. I’m just here for my unmarried wife who was recently overwhelmed by the human response of our dog. being that the women are slow to evoke, I’ll have myself know your sons are on a flat surface having a nightmare nightmares notice.
film. prayer. kittens in a box. serene nudes thrusting the skylight. trinkets in a first floor gift shop lifted by a man dreaming beneath a decompression chamber. a one use snowglobe. ash.
hole in a rabbit. a woman who talks once a year to firecrackers.
earth on earth. a baby without toes applauded for having two heels. a pregnant person who’s played on god
a simple hoax.
when reassigned, the man
oblivious to his current privacy
calls on his few belongings
the well trained animals
of his previous
and is carried
to a place
far, not far
with two questions
light as an itch
in the body
of a god
whose assassin son
what he can store
in the animal
the name must be shorter than a pastoral. the baby must outlive your father’s car. asking for the possibility of good sex must not be compared to anything. the person father is underneath must be from your past, your mother. the casket must be a rumor, and open. rumor must be definitive, like eclipse, like eye patch. the door must be placed on the back of a military mom and a photograph is preferred. the doorway must become addicted to selfies. dear boy, humiliate the right dog. tether dog. eat so much my girlfriend says dear boy, dear sea, stomach. you can’t hate poetry and the world. Bob is secretly a soccer mom rubbing a lamp in public and is also sometimes Jesus trying to step on a scale.
the mother beside him pulls disease like ivy from the wall. he puts his glove where her breast should be. with a finger of hers she traces the moustache drawn on his visor. I like this scene because I have kids.