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 Matt Morris

New Shoes

Not my diploma nailed to the wall, not my wife,
not my kids, not that I know of, smiling, holding
hands at the roller rink.  Where's
my stuff?
I ask, sticking my big mug,
coffee steam trailing from its lip, in every

orifice—er, office—along the long nightmare
of doors, behind which I find neither
tigers nor ladies, but blank,
indifferent shrugs.  A hand grips
my shoulder:
                        What seems to be
the problem?
  It's Sheila.  I share
my concerns about my position, as well
as my doubts about my fathering
the Kodak kids, which isn't meant
as a knock against the mother, for under
the right circumstances—  
                                    Listen, rocking
on her heels, Sheila interrupts, since
you've never worked here, you're probably having
some kind of episode
.  If I were strapped
to a hypnotic wheel, my head wouldn't
have spun more.  Is my face red? I blurt.

Don't  worry about it, she says.  Rosacea's
treatable.  Just try not to scratch.
  Then calls
security.  Elevator going
                                    down, the box
of personal belongings I'm handed
on the way out casts suspicion on Sheila's
explanation, though, in her favor,
            I do itch.  Suddenly blinded
by sunlight, I stumble over
a panhandler, spilling my life
scraps with his pencils
& change on the ratty blanket
that hides his amputated
legs.  Sorry, I tell him, unsure
what I'm apologizing for—my clumsiness
or the cribbage pegs
he has for legs.  He curses
& threatens, but I can't help
noting, with a surreptitious
snicker, that I got him by at least
two feet!   Rising, I blow
a kiss to Sheila, who waves, for all
I know, from her glistering
window.  It's just
like the old proverb about
the man with no shoes, except
I have shiny new loafers—
                        so I kick him.

The Maharishi

Dizzying the way it winds
in the rearview, this
road, a metaphor for life,
a wisp of smoke that climbs
a hill into plush clouds.

There the Maharishi, eyes
closed, sits in lotus
position, meditating.

He enters my mind as if
through the unlocked door
of my house, so I have to drive
back home to take care
of that. Thanks, Maharishi.

Thank you for reminding me.

On Looking Again at Boswell's Johnson

"It is much easier," a sweaty Johnson
reckons, slipping into ladies' pink
merino drawers, "not to write like a man
than to write like a woman."
Which is true

if you write with your cock. Easier still—
as we observe Boswell, silk slipper alighted
for leverage on the master's rump
pad, tugging corset laces
tight for the honor-

able, honorary doctor, who, expelling
wind like a whale, adjusts
his ponderous falsies—is not to write
at all. Period. End of sentence.
Ah! but these things—

as casting a critical eye at the critic, batting
his lashes spastically & applying
a coquettish mole upon
a rouged & powdered cheek, suggests—
are not as simple

as they seem. For one often feels certain
inborn urges to dip the quixotic
quill, so to speak. The doctor advises those
with such desires to go about it early
of a morning, with the crusty

moon doffing its elegantly plumed
tricorn, then "crowd to the public
rooms at night," for "real
delight," comes—if you know your Johnson—not
from wit alone, but a hale

& hearty fuck. Of course, one can do it
any time, Johnson clucks, "if he will
set himself doggedly to it." Winking, he whistles "Air
on the G-String" whilst conjuring Sapphic
couplets, triplets & all

forms of sextilla to encourage
budding authors. Never shy, his phony
coiffure piled high with pomade & flour
a bit like Mme. Pompadour, hoop
skirt hoisted to flaunt

petticoats & garters, he provocatively
gestures to "every young man . . . to do it as fast
as he can," &—according to Boswell
behind his ornate spread fan—
"to start promptly."

Matt MorrisMatt Morris has appeared in various magazines & anthologies. His first book, Nearing Narcoma, won the 2003 Main Street Rag Poetry Book Award (selected by Joy Harjo); Pudding House has published his two chapbooks, Here's How (2007) & Greatest Hits (2010). When not writing, he preaches poetry at the First Prosodic Shrine of the Divine Muse. Although he lives far away, you can visit him online, if that sounds like something you'd like to do, at miscmss.blogspot.com.

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