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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Two Poems by Jay Sizemore

Two days after the shooting

In my apartment, the cats are all asleep,
curled into quiet balls of fur,
sometimes stretching, covering eyes with paws.

The ceiling fan spins an artificial breeze
while outside a chilly wind
rattles loose pieces of siding, shakes the trees.

Some of the lights are on, the heat is set at 71 degrees.
I haven't slept for two days because I feel
like an empty school bus, driven through a ghost town.

Somewhere, it is a policeman's job to count shell casings,
to draw lines of chalk around each one
before placing it into a ziplock bag, before the bodies are removed.

A glass of water sets on the table, slowly warming.
Next door, the neighbors are invisible shadows of sound in the walls.
A clock ticks.




Almost date raped

He never fooled himself into believing
that music could start a revolution,
that words could stop a war
the way darkness could drain
color from a tan.

There's more power in the words
left unsaid. Their last conversation
was a tedious waltz around
the dead body of lust,

his memory unshaken, her pleading eyes
overlapping the fish-eyed naivety
of vodka-laced kisses with strangers,
her pale flesh the thin barrier
between forgiveness and rape.

He gnashed his teeth like a dog
between wolves and lamb,
their howls begging his complicity
with predators disguised
as college kids, their nostrils flared
and full of the scent of blood.

No. The empty bottles robbed her
of this word he chose to speak for her.

He would have killed them,
a drunk knight defending
some honor-filled illusion,
preventing the looters
removing the jewelry
from a corpse.

In the light of day
he fools himself into believing
it's the alcohol that does it,
not that all men have sharks in their skin
waiting for paper cuts
from the lips of the moon.


Jay Sizemore writes poetry and short fiction that offends his family. He is way behind on reading the classics. His work has appeared in places like Ayris, Red River Review, DASH, and Spry. His poem "My Despair Trivialized" was nominated for Best of the Net 2013 by Cease, Cows. He currently lives in Nashville, Tennessee, home of the death of modern music.



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