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 Kyle Hemmings

Edie Sedgwick #10

She's walking alone at night
forgot to take the pill
that would make her not see
the moon puking stars.
Her waist is a lie
brain matter originates
from fire & air.
She imagines mechanical
women making love
to their puff dolls
which only goes to prove
that sex isn't.

The elfin street cops
don't have the monogamous heart
to look up into her eye blanks
& tell her that Warhol is a fake.
It's only a truism
that it's raining
perfect tennis balls
in Italy.
There are not enough hands.
She wants to be cast
as dangerous but blue.
With Belmondo or Bardot
she would turn to ice cream
& trendy murders.

The sidewalks do not feel
her steps, nor care
about her long spindly legs.
She remembers the smile
of the box turtle
she lost as a kid
when the family
was not a shell,
when father would only allow
hot water
& one-way valves.




Edie Sedgwick #9

How to describe my father?
Well, I'd say that at night,
he grows amazing superpowers
& he's darker than an urge
that forgets itself
then subverts the masquerade ball.
His arms become very long,
can reach me anywhere,
dig through me,
as if I'm cracked soil
that always caves in.
Really, I'm his misfit shadow.
I once told my brother
that we are the outlines
of his flyaway words.
We'd never materialize.
Brother didn't last long
after that, he became
the space between me
& my outrageous fashion sense.
I wore black leotards
to attract superficial heat.
Father denies to the doctors
everything I say.
& who am I to argue?
After all, his ladies
claim that he's a humanitarian.
He loves soul food.




Edie Sedgwick #11

How can I pay for my drugs?
Do I have to fuck every guy
with a seesaw tongue
& baby spiders for eyes?
Do I have to rub noses
with every uptown woman
with a poodle & a master key,
whose husbands write dissertations
as to why their pets don't shit
but humans get constipated.
Do I have to sing solo
in a married man's bed
& reorganize his drawers
of semen stained underwear?
Do I have to paint myself
ultra-violet
& glow profusely?


Kyle Hemmings is the author of several chapbooks of poetry and prose: Avenue C, Cat People, and Anime Junkie (Scars Publications). His latest e-books are You Never Die in Wholes from Good Story Press and The Truth about Onions from Good Samaritan. He lives and writes in New Jersey.



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