T H I S A S S E M B L Y
by
K W E B E R
f e a t u r i n g
1 6 5 F R I E N D S
I N T R O
I joke that the only way I could have done any sort of new
chapbook project in 2019 was to get at least 150 people to
contribute. In reality, it was 165! All joking aside, this has been
one sincerely grand opportunity that just sort of happened after
over a year of periodically writing poems that included words
supplied by others. Through Twitter, Instagram, messaging
apps, and email I would occasionally request that people donate
words that I could use in a poem. Friends, family and even total
strangers would join in and on some occasions, I would get a very
large response! I was getting more comments on how much
others enjoyed helping me in the creation of new work and often
I would be told that individuals were trying out their own
donated word poems or giving prompts a chance.
My crafting of these collaborative poems began in April of 2018.
I was taking part in both the Poem-A-Day (PAD) Challenge at
Writer’s Digest and the daily NaPoWriMo writings and wanted to
add a twist to the existing prompts I was following. I find
sometimes that social media, as loud as it is, often makes me
feel even more isolated than I probably already am! I don’t know
how that is possible, but it is my experience. On the buzz of
writing new poems, I figured why not try reaching out to others
beyond the typical small talk or political nagging that can
sometimes make things uncomfortable online and work
together on some poetry! That first poem in which 5 people
submitted words for me to use, about begonias, is still a favorite.
I really wanted to do more of these. At most I believe I wrote one
poem incorporating 20-30 words. Having tried some other forms
of language and word-playing poems (I have taken apart entire
poems of mine and reorganized every letter and rearranged to
make a new poem… more than once or twice…), I found these
donated words poems to be unique and rewarding but not as
exhausting as some of the other experiments I have attempted
with my writing.
Inspired by all the encouragement and satisfaction of folks who
participated in my poems of the donated-word variety, I decided
to embark on a larger-scale book project. I mainly just knew I
wanted to do around 20 poems or something sort of resembling
chapbook-length although my intent all along was to continue
the format of my previous 4 books that I published in online PDF
and audiobook formats for free. I aimed for 150 people to donate
words I could use across those 20 poems. Things very soon got
weird and fun and I’d say pretty original.
I settled on 21 new poems to write. For about 2-3 weeks starting
in August 2019 I asked people I’ve known since birth, a long time,
a little while, or who just saw my call for word donations to send
me a word each. I surpassed my original goal of 150 people and
landed at 160. I gave every word a number and when they were
all collected, I used a randomizing tool online to put the words in
random order. By process of best guessing, and possibly rolling
dice, I selected how many words would be in each poem and also
the poem into which each word would land.
I began working on the 21 original poems little by little. Having
left the words to chance, I had no choice but to use the words in
the poems they were assigned. It’s funny now, in retrospect,
seeing how words that were initially daunting – that I could
barely pronounce and/or had no idea what their meanings were
– are very dear to me.
The task of using words given to me by others was keeping me
busy but I had a few ideas to add another layer or 2 or 3. I had
people send me a link to a song they enjoyed. I got 20 responses
to this. I put the numbers 1-20 in a tote bag, shook it up and then
drew one of the numbers. I then went back to the randomizing
tool to choose which of the 21 poems that song would be inspire.
“Hang in There” is the poem that eventually included the
winning song. PS: If you know me well, you know I made a
playlist of all the songs that were suggested:
https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLH0cQg9A1HY5EVs_
Wm1m0qaN-I22Ct2B8
One day while watching “The Great British Baking Show” I wrote
down 5 words that I heard and added them to the poem that is
now “In Retrograde.” You will also see a bonus section that was
originally going to contain one poem that recruited the help of a
few of the original 160 word donors in a poem that relies on a
theme, a title and several lines that were all suggested by others.
This was absolutely the toughest poem to complete! But why
stop there? I added another supplementary section that includes
5 poems written by 5 people that all feature the same 5 donated
words. And since I didn’t want to miss out on the fun of being the
word donor, there is a final poem where one person wrote a
poem using 5 words I gave them! I am ecstatic over the poems
resulting from these additional poems that have a bit more
heavy-lifting done by others! The poems written by others also
have another bonus!!! Most all of the writers read their poem
aloud in the audiobook version! Some even noted this was their
first time ever recording their poetry! What a huge compliment
to have so many people go along with me on this journey!
There was a poll somewhere in the midst of all of this where
anyone could vote on the color palette for the cover art and
interior design. 8 potential color schemes were provided and in
the end there was one that claimed much of the final vote. The
artist I worked with was able to create art that embodied
different aspects of the word “assembly” that are reflected
again and again in this project AND the art adhered to the
winning colors!
New to me (as I do most of my book projects all by myself from
beginning to end) was having a few people review these poems.
I wanted to make sure that the poems stood on their own and
were not just novelty or forced when it came to including the
donated words and other donated and teamwork aspects of this
book. I managed to have 12 people review the poems I wrote!
This was astounding as it allowed each poem to be read by no
fewer than 3 people! This was such a positive experience and no
2 reviewers had the same editorial or workshop experience. So
much variety in the suggestions I received. I took the leap and
revised some poems quite a bit thanks to the nudge of these
readers! In return for the generosity of time and engagement
from these readers (and the writers who contributed an original
poem), I offered to review their work and have already had a
chance to provide comments on poems and manuscripts from
this pool of talented and inspiring friends!
For a while this project was just known as
“#kweberandherproject” until I found the absolute most fitting
title. The cover art is based on a local factory in town that was
once a major auto plant. It sits silent, enormous and nearly
vacant but a sign including the word “assembly” still remains.
The word “assembly” encompasses so much that relates to this
project but, in short: this has been an assembly of people
assembling poems. We have created an end product together
that started from some little ideas then graduated to this
collection of poems. I tried my best to make these poems sound
like poems I write. Some of these words were not easy to fit
inside my voice! But like I said initially, I had so many people
partaking in this project that the momentum of every email,
spark of enthusiasm, and curiosity about this incredible
undertaking pushed this collection through to the final version
you get to jump into now!
After the original 21 poems, and then the addition of bonus
poems and including reviewers to look over my creations, the
total number of people who played a part in assisting me with
this overall effort is 165! So, count me in and it’s 166! I have
never done anything like this and for this to have been such a
satisfying endeavor the whole way through is pretty big deal
kinda stuff (sorry, I am slowly returning to my regular vocabulary
now!).
As noted previously, there is an audiobook version of THIS
ASSEMBLY! At the end of this compilation is my bio and a page
of helpful links and information about some of my other
projects.
Enjoy this wild, magical collaboration!
K W E B E R
L A S T I N G
That kiss, a catalyst, was not
coerced: tongue abrupt with restless
jut like a tail locked between legs. Lips pulsed
then lessened in their affection. Stretched out on linoleum,
dreams and sighs held the magnitude of rouge and ruse. The
body after shocks rose as a revenant. So much adoration
to be hated; a paradox existing as knees
reverberated laughter awkwardly
to acquiesce.
B L A K E A M B R O S E c a t a l y s t
J O E L I S T O N c o e r c e d
A N N E W A L T E R S t a i l
J U L I E E L D E R a f f e c t i o n
K Y L A H O U B O L T l i n o l e u m
A S H L E Y E L I Z A B E T H m a g n i t u d e
J A N I C E L E A G R A r u s e
M E A G A N L U C A S r e v e n a n t
S A R A H O ‘ B R I E N p a r a d o x
T O M S N A R S K Y a c q u i e s c e
S T A G E S
Mother Nature’s a heckler
and there is no laughter just yet
but much lively duende
from the tap-toed waiting crowd.
We crave being stunned and feeling
our bodies enervate. We crave
rain, not just the intrigue of virga misting
the undercarriage of a cloud.
A gradual sun, a deliberate snow, all
span an hour on some longitudes.
Sometimes our emotions dart
around in the afternoon, ticklish.
Mother Nature thunderclaps slowly
as the show goes forging onward
and the drink minimum
is a clumsy downpour.
The comedian goes on in full blather
beneath hot lights, frozen, as if the audience
dug him a hole and held him there
with ballast until the joke was funny.
There is nowhere to go. No shelter
from boredom or earthquake. We
slumbered through the act
wishing the roles were recast.
J E F F W E B E R h e c k l e r
M A R I S A S I L V A - D U N B A R d u e n d e
M I C H A E L M E T I V I E R v i r g a
J E N N R - J g r a d u a l
LA U R A T A R A S O F F f o r g i n g
R I C H A R D T I N E S b l a t h e r
C H R I S T I N A X I O N G b a l l a s t
T O D D S M I T H n o w h e r e
E L I Z A B E T H D I T T Y s l u m b e r e d
A M Y P O A G U E r e c a s t
W H A T S E T T L E M E A N T
I want to go home, but I am home.
My immediate empty stomach
fills with hiraeth; the place where we
played whole-family hide and seek;
where someone shot my yellow ball,
and I loved my little room with Peanuts
wallpaper. Gone. The water
tower’s shadow now cools the empty
lot. I once found a diamond on the staircase,
a piece of glass or chip of crystal. That sliver
gave me déjà vu that felt like 5 years old
at 32, the actual distance felt right
beside or inside of me. So close
then to my family. We hovered
over this city in sweeping murmuration
or ridiculous malarkey.
We followed each other into the best
and worst choices well before I was old
enough to think further ahead of myself.
I enjoyed sleeping in a sheeted fort
between gnarled trees and remember
a dead cat’s burial ground and never going
in the basement. Every word they said
back then now sounds like gibberish but I am
delighted and was loved. The transcendent,
resplendent scenarios of before or hindsight
were sometimes revealed to be wholly
pure transgression. Today I count the numbers
of them gone and I know which one tricked
and bribed and flashed the psychopomp
before they reached the end.
J U L I E T T E S E B O C K h i r a e t h
T I A N N A G. H A N S E N c r y s t a l
A G A T H E L E M E U N I E R d é j à v u
K I L E Y L E E d i s t a n c e
E L I O T N O R T H m u r m u r a t i o n
A N G E L A K I R K P A T R I C K m a l a r k e y
K A R E N B U T A K g n a r l e d
C A S I L O M B A R D O g i b b e r i s h
M E G H A S O O D t r a n s g r e s s i o n
Z A C H J. P A Y N E p s y c h o p o m p
I N V E N T O R Y
The same sham I love
because it’s illusory: we could
be cinnamon-tinged or in our
finest colic. Were we truly
candescent or were we burned
down to the last gasp early?
Your body never bronze but I
was not vibrant.
We carried our worn beige
souls around; made-up
to look like fireworks
and syncopation. There
was an allure to being more
than one person in a band
of arms entwined, chained
in solidarity.
L M A R I H A R R I S l o v e
G I N G E R S H O E M A K E R i l l u s o r y
K I M M A N N I X c i n n a m o n
E M I L Y C O S T A c o l i c
j. s l e e t c a n d e s c e n t
L E A H C A L L E N b r o n z e
S A R A M A T S O N v i b r a n t
G R E G L A W H U N s y n c o p a t i o n
J E S S T H A Y I L a l l u r e ( n o u n )
K D U L A I b a n d
E N D O F M A Y
There was no time
for the cellar
as wind went dripping
like washed knives.
The chimera
of safety
howled, train-like,
when nothing was safe.
Benighted, after the glow
of a good dinner, day-
light fell into dark
plumage, dead weight.
Trees whittled to sharp
pencils: shavings
drawn down as curtains
before the sideways shower.
To reify that night
in story involves how
buildings lost
their topmost stories.
Neighbors had their sleep
stolen maybe for weeks.
The fissure opened lines
of devastated communication.
N A T H A N L I N D c e l l a r
C. R. S M I T H d r i p p i n g
S A R A H R I C H A R D S c h i m e r a
D O U G L A S M E N A G H b e n i g h t e d
C A R A W A T E R F A L L p l u m a g e
E L I S A B E T H H O R A N r e i f y
M I L L I E H U D S O N m a y b e
J A S O N R A M S E Y f i s s u r e
F O R N O W
Is this liminal
or limbo? Wide-smiled
alacrity or weakening
elasticity? We are hands
and eyes in a way
friends don’t and we are
closer to mouthing “I love
you” as jazz
fills this room. This
song just might be ours
forever or a few days. You
write a poem on a napkin
about how my lips stained
a shared cigarette earlier
that day and now I am
leaving those same lip
stains on the wine glass.
Traces of me are
everywhere so I linger
long after I use
my last adjective
of the evening. Just as we
spill out of a side entrance
into the hot breath and cool
puddle of an overdue petrichor,
we fill our lungs with bliss
instead of nicotine. I don’t yet
fret our long arguments
nor do I prepare for a clever
comeback. Let me be naive
just a few hours as we stop
to live with total impermanence.
T H O M A S T I L T O N l i m i n a l
J A M I E W A Y a l a c r i t y
M E G J A C O B SO N r o o m
E R I C H O W A R D n a p k i n
D. R. B A K E R a d j e c t i v e
L I S A G A L L O W A Y p e t r i c h o r
C O N N I E B A C K U S c o m e b a c k
D A N I E L E L L C E Y n a i v e
D A Y - D R E N C H E D
After a cloudburst, the tree
bark appears reptilian
especially the sweet
gum in its damp sloth
and the slither
of a slow trickle.
In unwavering verdure
the midday sneaks by, stainless.
Animal and insect resume
their wet warbling.
The robins disperse
from trunk and fence
as limpid sky invites
the bluest canopy.
The only video of this scene
will play in raw memory.
Baffled, batting eyes
adapt to the remediation
of sun in just this moment.
.
T O M G U M B E R T r e p t i l i a n
O A K A Y L I N G u n w a v e r i n g
P E A C H D E L P H I N E v e r d u r e
M A T H E W Y A T E S w a r b l i n g
V E N U S D A V I S l i m p i d
R E L U C T A N T R I N G M A S T E R v i d e o
C A S S I E C O L E T T A b a f f l e d
M A D E L E I N E C O R L E Y r e m e d i a t i o n
A N A H A T A
the heart rings out:
ylang ylang!
incense releases,
the chest a fourth
center.
fortitude
forsook the aorta’s
red
and now
emanates green.
be loved, beloved,
beyond
percussion of bells,
the body’s toll.
anyone who falls
can strengthen
their emerald
core into shape,
plug in to feel.
that fruited
scent
twirls around
the room, the world.
personification.
in shiver or stall
it dizzies
as if intoxicating.
it’s dizzy
as if intoxicated.
the centermost
chakra
bookended
by threes
in their hat-
trick, magic.
S I H A M K A R A M I y l a n g y l a n g
M A R I E M A R T I N f o r t i t u d e
R A C H E L T A N N E R f o r s o o k
T Z Y N Y A P I N C H B A C K b e l o v e d
D E N I S E E N C K f a l l e n
R I C K E Y R I V E R S, J R. p e r s o n i f i c a t i o n
J I L L M C C A B E J O H N S O N s h i v e r
M E L I S S A R A G S L Y h a t – t r i c k
I N R E T R O G R A D E
You proceed forward
only to reach a former self
from within its frantic shell.
Just in from the gutter, all goes
guttural; the sound of a plum-
black bruise. Your pain extends
to the viscera without invitation
in visceral, prodding form. Less
is more while your comfort,
like rosewater, becomes obsolete.
Your good heart, often tendered
with good intention, turns useless
then turns towards the abattoir
that takes yet leaves nothing. You
observe this and succumb to ennui
as disconcerting as seven years
bad luck. The accompaniment
of your fighting smirk makes
a decision with a face.
J E N N A M I A s h e l l
E L F I E g u t t e r
E M M A K. S H I B L E Y p l u m
J O N B O T T O R F F b l a c k
S A G E R A V E N W O O D v i s c e r a l
T I F F A N Y S C A C C I A o b s e l e t e
E R I K L E O N A R D a b a t t o i r
D E V O N O R T E G A e n n u i
b o n u s w o r d s
randomly selected from an episode of
T H E G R E A T B R I T I S H B A K I N G S H O W
f r a n t i c
r o s e w a t e r
o f t e n
s e v e n
f i g h t i n g
F I N E
I cringe with my
entire nervous
system at the spider’s
web then long
to place it
in my photograph.
There is almost
muscle where
the silks bind
together; opulent
curve and square.
I always step
into the prickly
glue of it, jump
back, attached, I
wield temporary
spinnerets; shudder
to shutter, I snap
back, snapshot mode,
as light hits
and the leftover
net turns tinsel. My
thigh as steady
as a dampened
noodle, I become
the spider’s toady,
cheering its best
angle. A battered
wing sighs, a fly;
tied to the web
as a damsel
on the railroad
track. Another picture
opportunity finds
me finding the right
cold-blood moment
before these
insects return
to respective exile.
K A T E B A N T A c r i n g e
E R I N C O R K m u s c l e
J O H N H O M A N p r i c k l y
C O R Y F U N K s h u t t e r
K A R E N S T E I G E R n o o d l e
L I B B Y C U D M O R E t o a d y
F E D E R I C A S I L V I e x i l e
(O V E R) T H I N K P I E C E
An almost everyday ritual, the internal
keening of a long-gone grandmother,
a marriage discarded, the unhinged
decision; no regret but the lie of no regret.
The past seems periwinkle in retrospect:
that paint color winking from the hallway’s
entrance. Chaos was quiet but eventually
would flush blood through the face or fall
into a hospital bed or go driving around.
There was no element of surprise because
mania played trickster. One day, legs
sticking out of the closet, posed as accident,
the next held high by arms at concerts.
So long later, a gist of wistfulness: the dismissed
notion that there will never be another after-
noon ice skating to “Build Me Up Buttercup”
with a sting of iced air shared with the hockey
team and their lockers pouring sweat.
Everything already done turns anathema
when the brain can’t choose.
R O B E R T L E E B R E W E R e v e r y d a y
K A R I F L I C K I N G E R k e e n I n g
E L E P H A N T S N E V E R r e g r e t
P R E S T O N S M I T H p e r i w i n k l e
L I Z Z I E K E M B A L L c h a o s
M E G M A T T H I A S e l e m e n t
K A T G I O R D A N O b u t t e r c u p
T I F F A N Y B E L I E U a n a t h e m a
O P P O S I T E A C T I O N
whisper to conspire toss
a wrench into the mechanism
that attempts to keep
a serial friendship alive
cleave trust splinter/divide
if it feels as good
as gaslight or gone
the pressure: atmospheric
till the landscape dig
for others’ gold
move catlike unconditional
claw feline
stand at the riparian
edge of self-satisfaction
try not to jump or push
someone into the path
of an oncoming riverscape
A A R O N L A M B E R T c o n s p i r e
S T U A R T B U C K w r e n c h
M I C H A E L D I C K E L s e r i a l
M E L I S S A O S T R O M c l e a v e
C A R L Y M A D I S O N T A Y L O R i f
L E E P O T T S l a n d s c a p e
K I M H A R V E Y f e l i n e
T A K A K O T O K U O K A r i p a r i a n
R I G H T O N M A R I G O L D , L E F T O N C A R N A T I O N
Outside the bay
window, on the long drive-
way, the car driven
drunk sits torn open
like a poorly-healing scab
we won’t acknowledge
as it weeps continually.
“Willow, weep for me…”
This bi-level with new paint
offers a bliss we can’t afford. No
ghost, but we will leave
this place haunted with the broken
piano, hollow echoes of crying;
the desolate sandbox in the shade
of saccharine afternoons
before black-out evenings.
“Willow, weep for me…”
No one learned grace here, just
Fear as unwieldy as a kite’s
tail on a day filled with worry. Lack
of attention meant winning
the spelling bee, nearly
missing “colloquial”
in the district
rounds. “We can’t afford
another upset.”
“Willow, weep for me…”
B R E N D A N J O Y C E s c a b
K R I S L I N D B E C K w i l l o w
M O I R A J S A U C E R b l i s s
J A N E F L E M I N G h a u n t e d
S A M A N T H A L A M P H / L E N d e s o l a t e
M C K E N Z I E K W A K s a c c h a r i n e
J A S O N O’ M A R A g r a c e
A M A N D A B U T L E R c o l l o q u i a l
H A N G I N T H E R E
Days spent in labyrinth
longing to climb walls, you cheat
the systemic nature of meandering
depression, redeem with music;
a solemn or caustic relief. Float
on this note, a moth to the melody.
Your happiness
has not vanished. There are forearms,
shoulders that mean very well.
When life’s dilapidated, find that
bailiwick; that niche only you can
fill. Ponder but do not dwell.
Smile at life’s bright graffiti
You are lifelike like life.
M I S T Y D. H U D S O N l a b y r i n t h
G R E T C H E N R O C K W E L L s o l e m n
R E B E C C A K O K I T U S m o t h
W R I T E R O N T H E R O O F v a n i s h e d
N O R B A I K I N d i l a p i d a t e d
B R A D L E Y W R I G H T b a i l i w i c k
P A T R I C K D O R S E Y p o n d e r
A D R I E N N E J O H N S T O N l i f e l i k e
W H E N E V E R
The steam of July settles
for whatever, hangs there, barely
billowing. It’s just hot
enough for a picket line
and drool and sweat
hydrating
the political climate. Chants
for more chances holler the side-
walks and hover
the corners until ankles buckle
outside the lines. People blur past
in routine mimicry:
same today as yesterday
or last week, next Thursday, a year
from now. Everyone
not drawing attention like a child
feverishly scrawling the future
walks on, smooches
their loved ones. Meanwhile
crowds yell; fight
the humid day
to night. The rest scatter
to the placid, toward
the mown yard, the mountain, the lake.
P A T R I C K W H I T E D b i l l o w i n g
S A T Y R I C O N T H E p i c k e t
B Á R A H L A D Í K m i m i c r y
M. M. C A R R I G A N s m o o c h e s
C O O K I E H I P O N I A E V E R M A N p l a c i d
D E H Y D R A T I O N
Oh god, I found this fortress: the half-
mile of succulent weeds, wrestling leaves
trapping or consoling me in this
unbearable heat. A snail
adheres to the greenery at every
couple of inches as my pace
deflates and now it’s a race
as I climb hills arthritic with knees
that need and they slime past
me and my aspirations. It’s still
Father’s Day and I cloak myself
in slowness, aloneness. In my sun-
stroke I feel so low
on lithium but could swear
those sticky mollusks
might drag me into the shade. The musk
of summer clings like a middle-
grade cologne gifted from child to dad.
M A T T H E W L I T T L E f o r t r e s s
P E T E R H. M I C H A E L S s u c c u l e n t
C A S P E R A L I X A N D E R s n a i l
A L E X I S B A T E S a s p i r a t i o n s
R O B D E L V E C C H I O c l o a k
T H E N A R R O W I N G , T H E F I T T I N G I N
Back-lit or in the foreground, sleek filaments of paintbrush bristles
or stemmed parts brighten in museum or arboretum. Curious observers
become enthralled with how they dance until vertigo and they grow.
Tug at the soil with toes on an overcast day, clouds crowded
like a gallery grand opening. Run for the art and flower even if only
in mind without leaving the body.
Who knew except you that there was synergy between the howl
of portraits’ grimaced faces and the voluptuous petals in the green-
house?
A N K H S P I C E f i l a m e n t s
S I E R R A R I T T U E e n t h r a l l e d
N A T A L I E K O C S I S v e r t i g o
H O L L Y S A L V A T O R E s o i l
L I S A W E B E R s y n e r g y
E L O D I E B A R N E S v o l u p t u o u s
L A L A L A N D
so close to a fugue
limp in the clothes rack
lights flickered poorly
she became her tattoo
a branching tree
but she’s up-
rooting
i become a badlands
so little to give
my presence eroded
and erroneous i try
to support her drooping body
i am equipped with compassion
but only a scintilla of know-how
she makes her first escape
into seizure
while i scream
A N D R E W S H A T T U C K M C B R I D E f u g u e
R I C H A R D W E I S E R b r a n c h i n g
A M Y P A R K E S b a d l a n d s
S T E P H A N I E B E N T O N e r r o n e o u s
M A T T H E W M. C. S M I T H s c i n t i l l a
K R I S T I N G A R T H e s c a p e
I T ‘ S N E V E R T O O L A T E
If you write at night
a savage sleepiness lets loose:
hides between clever lines
and breaks into the poem’s dark
room for a power nap.
It doesn’t pay attention to the meter,
turns trochaic into something archaic
and fetid to seep under the carpet’s
cover of damp floorboard
where the total syllables
remain uncounted, discarded.
Who cares if you are right?
The sky doesn’t wake for your whim.
At day’s end, the pulchritude
is immense, subjective
and derived. It is a thing
best sensed with the whole
self and not to have, halved.
If you skywrite at night
invisible ink cannot compete
with constellations
pin-balling in rapid
dot-to-dot
between stars.
M A R I N A S C H R O E D I N G E R s a v a g e
L A U R A L E E f e t i d
J E A N N I E P R I N S E N t o t a l
C A R L A M A R C H A L p u l c h r i t u d e
N A D I A G E R A S S I M E N K O s k y w r i t e
Z A R A N A r a p i d
F O U R S Q U A R E
a crush
of colorful chalk
dusts the concrete
as unapologetic
feet and ball
bounce above
it hangs on, week-
long: sidewalk art
on the verge
of a spring storm
until only nostalgic
specimen remains
H E A T H E N D E R R - S M I T H c r u s h
R I C H A R D W A R I N G u n a p o l o g e t i c
L A U R A M O T A V A S S E L I b o u n c e
P A U L B R O O K E S v e r g e
A N C A S E G A L L s p r I n g
J E S S I E L Y N N M C M A I N S s p e c i m e n
N E V E R B E T T E R
standing on any other planet
one can see our pandemic
of sadness. the topography
shows its contusions
and all that confuses:
here, a sinkhole, there an oil
spill. everything worn-out
appears in flagrancy: the rancid
meat, the broke-down streets
and all of this hidden beyond
a human holding on for hope
and the notion of consistency.
B A I L E Y G R E Y p a n d e m i c
A L L I E M A R I N I s i n k h o l e
K E E F s p i l l
G E R A M E E H E N S L E Y f l a g r a n c y
J O H N W. L E Y S h o p e
A M A N D A H U B I K c o n s i s t e n c y
B O N U S P O E M S
In this first bonus poem, I wanted to enlist the help of others
who could donate lines of their choosing, a title, and the overall
theme.
I originally aimed to find 150 people to donate 150 words.
I was lucky to not only meet that goal, but to exceed it.
The original 21 poems include 160 words donated by 160
people!
In celebration of meeting and surpassing the initial goal,
I asked the 150
th
word donor to choose a title for this poem and
a theme. I asked the 1
st
and 151
st
through 160
th
word donors to
provide a line of poetry between 2-10 words in length.
Many were able to take part in the first of these three
supplemental poem sections that I was so excited
to add to this chapbook.
This was indeed the most challenging poem
for me as I had to marry vastly differing phrases
with a theme and title beyond my choosing.
But as is probably apparent from reading this chapbook
or having followed this project in its progress, I am
always up for making poems out of unique pieces!
The following list contains the names of contributors
to this unique collaborative effort and their contributions!
The resulting poem appears on the proceeding pages.
A M Y P A R K E S
TITLE
“Self-portrait as a [x]keeper” where [x] is whatever animal
gets mentioned in donated words
THEME
gratitude
LINES
K A R E N B U T A K
(some derivation of the words “whir” and “spokes” as a bicycle)
T O M S N A R S K Y
a field like a billowy dress
K Y L A H O U B O L T
after a flood, waterline marks the linoleum
M C K E N Z I E K W A K
Straddling the chasm between before and after
A N D R E W S H A T T U C K M C B R I D E
the rumble and crash of thunder
K A R I F L I C K I N G E R
sincere conifer conflation
R I C K E Y R I V E R S, J R.
Hold us closely
L E A H C A L L E N
tonight the sky is a bloodstain.
L I Z Z I E K E M B A L L
the candle dies — smoke clinging to the embers light
S E L F - P O R T R A I T A S A M O T H - K E E P E R
No worries like my old worries, or butterflies,
magnified. With breath
and thanks I hold air in my lungs, close
my eyes and feel
open; my mind whirs like bicycle spokes
then settles
its brakes. I break into cool, wanted sweat
and release; the cooling
becomes light and breezy as a field
like a billowy dress.
I envision liquid now, straight from the tap.
I am humbled
by the faucet and what comes next. I know
time goes on
but intrusive thoughts block my meditation; clutter
my mind instead. I think
about how we are just days after a flood, waterline
marks the linoleum
with a permanence that acts as tick-mark
on an untimely wall.
Straddling the chasm between before
and after this moment,
I stay present by saying “om” or “one.”
Right now, I am
timeless and limitless and mindful
but mindless. Deep
inhale as I clear a path as my mind’s
trail is off. I must stay
focused and recall my blessings, forget
the rumble and crash
of thunder that shook the city before the gusts
were overwhelmed.
I let images pass by but my brain stops
at the most sincere
conifer conflation where the pine forest
of different needles
welcomes me on my course. Just as I
relax to sit
on a felled tree, I remember to return
to the breath; to let go
of all attachment. My mantra becomes
“Hold us closely”
but I am not sure who we are and who will
embrace this quiet
mind in time. Before I attempted to love
myself today
I assumed the morning was a fluke,
and am slightly
convinced that even tonight the sky
is a bloodstain.
But nothing bleeds and oxygen
is the only concern
as it clears another path. As I near
my time to rise
and fall into bed, I watch a moth edging its wings
to the fiery light
melting the wax beside my bed.
The only way
to save this daring thing is to exhale, extinguish.
The candle dies –
smoke clinging to the embers light
the way as the moth
flits from flannel to flannel in the hallway
closet.
These next 5 poems show how uniquely 5 words can be used by
different writers! Myself and 4 other poets wrote a poem each
for this bonus section and we incorporated the donated words
in our work.
The 5 words were donated by…
A M A N D A H U B I K a c c l i m a t e
A M Y P O A G U E i r i d e s c e
A N N E W A L T E R S w h i s k e r s
K I L E Y L E E b o o t
P R E S T O N S M I T H c a c o p h o n y
Unmarketable
Blinding
a blazing light straight to the ear
Cacophony holds
my reaction over me
daring me to take it
from its searing grasp
I could never acclimate,
the hand of the ruckus
can never fade into the background
while its fist squeezes my eardrums
Pulling at the whiskers of old Lady Peace
my own hands yearn to pull up
one grey hair
to watch it iridesce into a tranquil streak
twine to tie a thought back to its core
itself
And the blaze relents to my twine
my eyes open
wide
as the Sun is to Venus
my legs move
laden
as atrophy is to a lead boot
cold hands give me what cacophony held
while the new memory plays out slowly
I don’t think to accept
Instead instinct turns it to rest
River Fujimoto
Second-Hand Maps and Other Obtuse Devices of Self-Discovery
I: Factotum and Reliquary
Bolan said we are built
Like cars, but somewhere
The hubcaps got lost, not
A diamond or halo in sight – just
Rusty sheet metal and door dings
Boot to bonnet, chipped
Glass and suspect transmission.
Its not the age,
it’s the miles.
A trade-in out of the question.
II: Hibernaculum and Subaudition
First fissures thin as whiskers
Hidden by new flakes
At night we startle awake
When the surface shifts
With a bang or unearthly ping
Out among the light coated
Pines we skate, old hands
In our own frost to find
The veins heaved up.
In the spring the lake
Bears none of the scars.
III: Threnody and Aubade
It is unwise, as dangerous
As Thanksgiving pond ice,
To ever acclimate to
The cacophony of another’s
Breath during sleep.
IV: Iridesce and Coruscate
You -me -we -one
Must be open to
Joy for it to glow
Sparkling like bits
Of flint and steel
Raked in the need
For warmth, light.
When you are in
Deep woods trouble
Build a long fire,
That is as tall as
You are while supine
To survive the dark
Bills that come due.
Cory Funk
Advice For When It’s All Shiny And New
Acclimate to dizziness. Put your hand against a wall
or a strong back to steady yourself.
There will be a cacophony of notions, swirling
hewillmakeyouhappyhewillmakeyouwholeyouarebetternow
Some things will be true:
Rasp of whiskers on your bare thigh.
How yearning blossoms from the smell of a dirty ball cap.
The way your name is complete coated in the timbre of his voice.
No matter how familiar it seems, no matter how perfect the fit —
like a boot you’ve owned for years, insole moulded to the shape
of your foot, even the broken baby toe that healed crooked
feels right here. Everything
is right here —
no, it’s fucking enchanted
and rare as a goddamn gem
remember
not even diamonds iridesce forever.
Kim Mannix
Walking the Hundred-Acre Wood
At the end of my dead-end street,
a trailhead for the Hundred-Acre Wood
beckons. Earthmoving equipment
and heavy vehicles have moved on.
On asphalt, pools of cars’ leaked oil
iridesce in a sunbreak. On the trail
I gain distance from the cacophony
of sounds blaring the city’s rude news.
Petrichor rises from damp earth. Quiet deepens
into the welcome respite of natural sounds.
I boot anxiety and concerns as I walk
deeper into the Hundred-Acre Wood, grateful
that the city purchased this parcel
of densely-forested land, slated
for development till recently. Here
I don’t have to worry about my appearance
or trimming my whiskers; I can just be.
As I acclimate to this oasis, I realize
the grip of my anxiety has loosened
and my concerns seem manageable.
Here, the future is big-hearted, open-ended.
Andrew Shattuck McBride
disturbing peace
something blooms
fragrant, purple, wild,
but is unlike the neighbor’s
lilac bush. something with whiskers
takes puffed-chest sigh
and umbrage at our blazing
this trail. something
mossy covers slick
rock under heavy boot
and no guide can identify
this or that striped bird
that decides not to take
part in the cacophony
of nature sounds. something
glints off the sunlit creek
while small fish iridesce beneath
the shallow. something attempts
to acclimate but will never quite
belong.
K Weber
*I also added the following suggestion simply because I could and
this project is all about challenge and accepting literary assistance!
S T U A R T B U C K umbrage
R I V E R F U J I M O T O
is a trans writer, baker, and tea enthusiast living in Ohio. Her
work is featured with Five: 2: One Magazine and the Wellington
Street Review. Follow her on twitter @gongfu_fighter!
C O R Y F U N K
is a music junkie who lives in St Paul, MN. His written work has
appeared in Memoir Mixtapes, The Blue Pages, Moonchild
Magazine, and Mookychick. Cory has had photography
published in Kissing Dynamite.
K I M M A N N I X
is a poet and short fiction writer from Sherwood Park, Alberta,
Canada. You can find out more about her work and
publications at http://www.makesmesodigress.com or on
Twitter @KimMannix.
A N D R E W S H A T T U C K M C B R I D E
is an editor and writer based in Bellingham, WA. Co-editor, For
Love of Orcas (Wandering Aengus, 2019). Words in Crab Creek
Review, Empty Mirror, and Floating Bridge Review
I wanted the opportunity to take a backseat from writing a
poem to be the one who supplies the word donations. For this
grand finale, I was able to enlist a poet whose writing I enjoy a
lot and am so glad this wonderful person was up to the task.
Here are the 5 words I challenged the author to incorporate
into a poem:
baby
footfall
overjoyed
signing
tawny
K I L E Y L E E
is an Appalachian artist and writer, with work in multiple
publications and exhibitions across the United States. For
more information, please visit:
http://linktr.ee/kileylee
Ground Wells
I was overjoyed to see,
rebel reds turn tawny
and fall —
Revolution:
To dying spirits
still living in
green fields
fair forever
Hardly.
Ever.
Young eyes tell who’s in
the corner: baby, baby.
Heart hammers bringing rage
as heavy footfall — ringing in ears
and collapsing chest caverns
have me signing my life away
Every breath should have
Purpose.
Should
Have
Need.
Kiley Lee
T H A N K S
So many people to thank! You’ll see all the key players names
throughout but to express it more outwardly: THANK YOU
ENDLESSLY to all 165 people who took a chance and assisted with
this project. One thing I find is that asking for help is sometimes a
very hard thing to do. The outpouring of enthusiasm over this
project is seriously uplifting. This didn’t feel too much like work and
a lot of hands and some people wearing many hats were along for
the ride!
Thanks to anyone reading this collection. it has been good therapy
for me to focus on something positive and interactive.
Thanks to all who inspire and especially those who leave their
hearts and heads open to continually be inspired!
Giving myself a nod because this was a medically and mentally
confusing year but as the new year and decade approach, I see
some positive changes on the horizon.
I save so many comments that have been left regarding past
donated word poems and THIS ASSEMBLY. This is a favorite and I
feel it really speaks volumes about what I/we do when we create
these donated word poems together:
“Like alchemy, [K Weber] can transform a bunch of
random words into an incredible poem! This is fun to
participate in as word-contributor... you get to scan the
end result & say ‘look, THERE'S MY WORD! It's in a
poem!’”
- T O D D S M I T H
It never gets old when people say they can’t wait to see how I
crafted a poem containing their word selection. One word can
change a day, a mood, the world.
This has been a fulfilling and engaging project. It is also the first
time I really let go and interacted with so many people on a large-
scale writing project that was different than some of the ways in
which I have created in the past. Along with the word donors and
creators of new poems for this effort, I had an overwhelming
amount of people of various levels of editing experience, some
who I had never talked to before, offer to be readers and reviewers.
These are the individuals who took time out of busy schedules and
their own projects to assist me in ensuring the poems I created
were in their best final form:
E N N I S R. B A S H E
S T U A R T B U C K
H A N N A H C A J A N D I G – T A Y L O R
J U L I E E L D E R
M E G A N G A R N E R
H O K I S
M A R C E L L E N E W B O L D
S I E R R A R I T T U E
H O L L Y S A L V A T O R E
T I F F A N Y S C I A C C A
M E G H A S O O D
P R E S T O N S M I T H
A B O U T T H E C O V E R / I N T E R I O R A R T
The cover and interior art was developed by a good friend
of mine based on our discussions surrounding
the word “assembly” and some photos I had taken
of the former GM plant in our region that has stood nearly
empty for a very long time. The juxtaposition of an assembly
plant standing mostly silent within a book
teeming with progress and togetherness combines a certain
local nostalgia and this recent work of cumulative talents that
represents current and future production.
I enjoy Greg’s artwork so much and he was the perfect person
to combine so many facets of this project AND he used those
poll-winning colors with so much feeling. He has been generous
with his time and art for THIS ASSEMBLY!
G R E G L A W H U N
is a graduate of The Columbus College of Art & Design
who spends his days making comics and animation. He has a
giant collection of books and movies, a small collection
of synthesizers and vinyl records, and several old still-
functioning video game systems. He’s lived through two
tornado attacks, drinks all the coffee, likes Formula 1, smokes
cigars, messes around with aquariums and is mostly enjoying
entering middle age.
S P E C I A L N O T E S
THIS ASSEMBLY AUDIOBOOK
The audio version of THIS ASSEMBLY
can be accessed from the link in my bio!
I read poems and made the music/
noise/soundscapes throughout!
4 of the guest poem writers in the bonus portion
of THIS ASSEMBLY read their poems for the audiobook!
Love all these voices whether on audio or in text!
REGARDING ORIGINAL WRITTEN AND VISUAL WORK
All unique poems and artwork
belong to the artists! I am grateful
to have so many friends create new work
for this project, but I do not own their work!
I encourage all who generated original pieces
for THIS ASSEMBLY to submit elsewhere
for publication if they so choose!
Here’s a list of links to my other projects!
a 5K - I sometimes record myself reading 5 poems:
http://kweberanda5k.wordpress.com
dot art - I make art with dots:
http://kweberandherdots.wordpress.com
radio shows: I used to be an online DJ.
sometimes my old shows resurface
for your/my enjoyment:
http://kweberandhershows.wordpress.com
song recommendations: I have had quite a few
published at Memoir Mixtapes since 2018...
here are all of my recommendations to date:
https://medium.com/@kweberandherwords
2019