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Alex Schmidt

Alex Schmidt currently lives in his mind, or wait, I think he’s recently moved to the trees. Oh, no? I see, well, no matter where he lives, his most recent address is located in Charlotte, NC. About five days a week you can find him working at Trader Joe’s, any other time, he could be zipping through the pinkish clouds with his wife; dreaming about playing slide guitar; watching any movie released by Criterion, specifically the older Italian and French ones—”Fellini!” you might hear him scream from time to time during moments of heavenly witness—and once a day he walks his basset hound, Thumper, while he reads.

Thriving Modernist Movements

The city goes BOOM BOOM as it climbs the mountain.

The buildings quiver more and more
as they grow a little taller each year.

The Smoyte family doesn’t move at all
for thirty days, the founders of a new method to being still:

move every thirty days: spin
a record, shake a leg,

praise god: Percy Sledge,
an abstract voice

from an abstract age.
THINKING in white block letters

looks over the valley from the opposing summit.
It makes murky the little marigolds

clumped at its base.
Black on orange on white.

There was a time when thinking was the only verb.
But now oranging

is to have a head filled with childhood enigmas and cry
usually by the red river.

And at one point birds and children became one in the same
the same as thinking, which is now greening.

Father Smoyte moves. It’s only been twenty-eight days
but there’s an itch on his leg,

in his head, and now a quick
wince at the darkening patch of blue
jays in the valley.

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