Patricia Drake
Patricia Drake
Sep 5, 2013

we were late
the gathering had already begun
a solemn voice recited
his stories
his words
became ours
among whitened walls
behind him were instruments
quiet like us
anxiously waiting
unfamiliar with house
he finished and we applauded
along with the faces
captured on canvas
and hung with nails
on the walls
The next voice was a woman
she spoke in verse
free, blank,
only slightly
but sensual
inside and beyond
our faces
her voice
her body
reflected in the windows
and we were invited
to eat and drink upstairs
that night
with words
and faces surrounding us
voices and music
a strange lady
mostly to herself
but everything
telling more stories
for us to contemplate
until next time

Like an assembly line
Feb 24      Feb 26

The horrors fill
Each inch
Of my shaking body
As I think about the future
And how I don't think
I'll be able to make it
That far
Because one after another
My demons
Come to see me
One by one
Like an assembly line
Of my deepest


'Look everybody, look at his eye!'
I look, at his face,
his contrived, forlorn expression.
Yet the class sees only the bruising.

'We don't hurt each other like this,
do we?' She looks at me.
Fire clambers up my neck,
pricks my chin and
gathers, finally,
in the balls of my cheeks,
where it blazes.

The mouth-shaped bruise
on my arm tingles,
teeth marks still bloody.
I roll down my sleeve,
too proud
to be considered a grass.

Later, she wants to talk,
but I can't for crying.
And I hate when she tells me,
'Just don't do it again.'

Somewhere in the fading echoes
as the daylight slows
my eyes will close
upon this scene
as if I'd never been at all.

On tombstones where names flake away
In year books from a yesterday
perhaps an image will remain
to stain your memory.

What price is it that we must pay?
What fee is due?
When you or I take that last look at the Summer sky
and fly off to one more blind fate
the final unknown unkind blind date
Who will wait to etch our passing in the book of time?
Who will catch the echoes that we leave behind?

And should I care?
I was never born,never lived,didn't die
I was not there
it was not me you saw
soaring free.
It was not me
It couldn't be.
How would I give up that which is given freely?
that which I should love so dearly
and so very nearly,
I begin to see
how it could be me
I could be there
could live and die with no one to care and at the fade out
would I still shout
It was not me?

These questions sent to try me
tire me.
The fire that was me if it ever was me
is now the embers in the grate.
The cold hand of that unkind blind date
is reaching out to me.
It cannot see me shake
nor can it feel as my heart breaks and daylight flakes away
into the coldness of the final night.

It might have been me that you saw soaring free
or in the echoes of light smashing into the ground.
Stick around
I'll let you know
but then one day,like me you'll have to go.
Just so you know
if you're looking
I'll be in the garden smelling of roses.

the day of the assembly.
Its ByrnByrn
Its ByrnByrn
Nov 16, 2013

It's the same dull presentation every year.
Her friends all aware.
She stands out today,
but then again,
not really.

She is of the few who remembered,
the occasion that is.
Simple black dress.
Black boots.
Poppy ablaze on her heart.
She is quiet today.

The Marlboro-huffing voice,
crackles over the P.A.,
telling students to report to the cafetorium.
She rises out of her seat,
smoothes her dress,
and straightens her poppy.

She is first to hand in the annual
"I Will Remember..."
slip of paper.
Along with her older brother's name.
Not looking back as she leaves.

Everyone files into their seats,
their bland, identical, mauve-coloured seats;
fidgeting before they even sit.
The "populars" in front of her,
texting and tweeting life away.

She silently studies the band, bitter as can be.
All there for extra cred, or to get out of class.
"Delinquents reading sheet music"
Printed on white, crisp new paper,
only to be forgotten about,
or thrown out tomorrow.

The anthem is played,
she loses control.
Tears tearing a path down her face.
Nothing but a scratchy wool sleeve to help;
all the while,
not without a stiff upper lip.

And as soon as it started,
the entire thing is over,
and everyone files out of their seats.
While she and a friend quietly duck into a bathroom,
seeking refuge from the common calm.
She cries.
Then quickly collects herself and walks back alone.

She enters class,
late with bloodshot eyes; daring anyone to speak.
Smeared makeup like warpaint.
Catching the eyes of her classmates,
as well as those of her teacher,
who now understands.

Though it's a silent knowing,
of course;
because nobody enjoys talking about,
nor remembering,
the day of the assembly.

-November 11th, 2012

If I see the bottom, I see the top.
I speak loudest when I'm silent.
I sleep best when I'm awake.
I'm only flying when  I'm on the ground.

I only get this way when there's a glimmer of hope.
I want a friend.

ellen menzies
ellen menzies
Mar 6, 2013      Mar 6, 2013



Assembly lines of blanched
3 days ago

Assembly lines of blanched
fields...seamless, yet bordering
ideas of borders.
Birthplaces of transcendent
spaces--ground's aerial view...
the third person's angelic

pissing on the assembly line workers
Joe Satkowski
Joe Satkowski
Dec 22, 2013

all you have to do is pay bills and fall over

pissing on the assembly line workers
with your corporate grin

Though the assembly line
Seth Connor Jackson

Clockwork heart
It beats hands free
Pumping steel
Though the assembly line
That’s me
Watchtower body
Skeletally strong
Calcium foundation
That carries on
Life’s long
Air’s free
Gridiron lungs
Empower me
Breathe in
I live
Breathe out
I’m dying
Machine-like body
Keeps me surviving
Microchip mind
Making choices
Basic instinct
By voices
Crash course
In life
Without airbags
Wheels and gears
Slow and cease
Assembly line halts
Rest in peace

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