Editors' Notes

Maria Damon and Michelle Greenblatt
Jim Leftwich and Michelle Greenblatt
Sheila E. Murphy and Michelle Greenblatt

A Visual Conversation on Michelle Greenblatt's ASHES AND SEEDS with Stephen Harrison, Monika Mori | MOO, Jonathan Penton and Michelle Greenblatt

Letters for Michelle: with work by Jukka-Pekka Kervinen, Jeffrey Side, Larry Goodell, mark hartenbach, Charles J. Butler, Alexandria Bryan and Brian Kovich

Visual Poetry by Reed Altemus
Poetry by Glen Armstrong
Poetry by Lana Bella
A Eulogic Poem by John M. Bennett
Elegic Poetry by John M. Bennett
Poetry by Wendy Taylor Carlisle
A Eulogy by Vincent A. Cellucci
Poetry by Vincent A. Cellucci
Poetry by Joel Chace
A Spoken Word Poem and Visual Art by K.R. Copeland
A Eulogy by Alan Fyfe
Poetry by Win Harms
Poetry by Carolyn Hembree
Poetry by Cindy Hochman
A Eulogy by Steffen Horstmann
A Eulogic Poem by Dylan Krieger
An Elegic Poem by Dylan Krieger
Visual Art by Donna Kuhn
Poetry by Louise Landes Levi
Poetry by Jim Lineberger
Poetry by Dennis Mahagin
Poetry by Peter Marra
A Eulogy by Frankie Metro
A Song by Alexis Moon and Jonathan Penton
Poetry by Jay Passer
A Eulogy by Jonathan Penton
Visual Poetry by Anne Elezabeth Pluto and Bryson Dean-Gauthier
Visual Art by Marthe Reed
A Eulogy by Gabriel Ricard
Poetry by Alison Ross
A Short Movie by Bernd Sauermann
Poetry by Christopher Shipman
A Spoken Word Poem by Larissa Shmailo
A Eulogic Poem by Jay Sizemore
Elegic Poetry by Jay Sizemore
Poetry by Felino A. Soriano
Visual Art by Jamie Stoneman
Poetry by Ray Succre
Poetry by Yuriy Tarnawsky
A Song by Marc Vincenz


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Drawing Room
by Benjamin Bailey

I still smell the rich tobacco in his drawing room.
The room where he always sat: within the house, but apart from it,
And the place where later on in life he was attended to,
"made comfortable".

I see him still
by the fire, in his throne
nestled in mahogany walls,
among evidence of his prestige;

As a boy, I'd creep in slowly,
Afraid. Of him. Of the fire.
Sure that he ruled the flames,
as he did all things.

I'd ask a question, and stare
at the golden curls of the Persian rug
beneath his slippered feet.
Sometimes, he would respond.

Now, in the empty room, I look upon
the cold coals, the dusty rug,
the chair that was always
just a chair,

and I remember one of the times
that he answered me. When I told him a girl
at school had said,
"Your dad is the Devil"

He sat quiet so long I turned to leave
But then he spoke:
"There are no devils, boy
Just little girls, scared of their fate."


Benjamin Bailey is a soulless commercial litigation attorney in Fort Lauderdale, Florida who secretly writes poems. Benjamin Bailey is not his real name.



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