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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Three Poems by mark hartenbach

scene 57

it came apart. it was bound to happen sooner or later. nothing
is forever. not even that. you can try clay & hidden vows.
you can try bent nails & spiked morphine. you can try french
kisses & wild rivers. it came apart. i'm not sure when. one
day it was fine—at least it seemed okay to me, but the next day,
there it was, unraveled into a hundred pages of goodbyes.
there were no dead bluebirds or stale perfume at the scene.
that would have stunk of a setup. there were a few crows
picking at it until they saw me coming. it reminded me of
ammonia. like it had just been disinfected. it came apart. i can't
be certain, but i'd guess no more than eight hours had passed. that's on my
time table though. keep that under consideration. a derailed
train which spilled out dozens of coffins. the labels didn't matter.
not in all that wreckage. there was nothing for the shadows to
steal. everything was gone before they got there. i'm sorry.
i don't know what else to say. it came apart.




i looked long enough that i forgot to breathe. it no longer
matters if it was love or irretrievably beautiful. it was
undeniably human. it's no longer important if it was
spurred by dopamine or expectations or literary aspirations.
i no longer remembered the physical blow. i never
completely understood why i continued to move toward
it so many times. i do recall why i walked away, though.
i don't remember how anger could rotate into other
emotional readings. the longing & the solitude
became larger than the sum of their parts, though
they were more than a world away from one another.
i hear an empathetic reply. i hear repetitious apologies. i
find myself surprised yet again at my reaction. i still need
surprise, & i need something to help me forget in
the meantime.




i paused for a moment before my laugh broke the distance.
i laid one on top of the other until they all toppled over. i
bridged the night with a mason jar of homemade wine
& cribbed poetry. you said i was different. it was all in the
way you said it, of course. i understood immediately &
accepted your judgment. she told me that you said i was
enigmatic. that was even better—if it was true. she must
have realized at some point that she was driving me right
into your arms. maybe it was subconscious to begin with.
maybe it was as calculated as her faked orgasms &
elaborate maybelline touches. i slid my hand under the
table so i could touch your leg. the room was crowded with
conversation, but i could hear your breathing quicken.
i wanted to sweep the table clean. i wanted to glide into
you right there. i wanted everyone to watch. you asked if
i'd like to stop over that evening but i had to be home.
she would know immediately where the time had gone.
i didn't want to go home. i never should have left.


mark hartenach lives along the ohio river in a dying rust belt town in appalachia—constantly fighting to keep his sanity.



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