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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Tale of the Hashish Eater, Scamro (a modern retelling)

In the 12th Century, there was a Persian dude who loved the dames, and he spent all his dough on them, 'til he was so poor, he had not a red cent. He was stressed out and he used to beg for bread. He always managed to score some hash, though. Once he went out and he accidentally scraped his hand against an iron nail in the stone wall, which made his skin bleed. So he sat down, wiped the blood away, and bound up his finger with some dishrags. What a day! He was crying to himself when he came to a bathhouse, and when he got there (as admittance is always free), he took off his duds, and was surprised to see the bath clean and empty. So he sat down by the tap and poured warm water on his head 'til he was chill. Then he went out to the cooling room and seeing it empty, curled into a corner and took out a piece of hash and swallowed it. Pretty soon, he was chockered, and he rolled over onto the marble floor. He had become a scamro. He started thinking he was somebody special, that he could feel servants massaging him and shampooing his hair. A stately young man was shampooing his hair and two slaves massaged his feet, all of them bearing various bowls filled with oils, lathers, and unguents. When he saw this, he said to himself, "These guys must have me confused with someone else, or else they are hash-eaters like me." Then he stretched out his legs to full length, and pointed his toes, and could have sworn he heard the chief masseuse say to him, "Master, it is almost time to go up to the palace to receive your service." At this, he laughed and said to himself, "Whatever God wants, O Hashish!"

He sat silently, and the bathman took him by the hand and put black silk boxers on him. Then the two slaves followed him into a special meeting room, still carrying their massage paraphernalia. In the meeting room, they set incense and perfumes burning. There were platters of all kinds of fruits and bouquets of flowers! And they sliced him watermelon and seated him on an ebony chair, where they started bathing and shampooing him again. The fruit was swizeet and then they rubbed him down and finished after a half hour by saluting him, "Minister, good health to you!"

They left him in the room and shut the door. Alone, he got up, and stripped bare and starting laughing hysterically 'til he doubled over and almost fainted. While he was recovering from the giggles, he said to himself, "What's wrong with those dudes? Calling me 'master' and 'minister'! Give them an hour to realize their mistake, and they will say, 'This dude is a stewbum' and they will slap me around for sure." Then, on account of all the laughing and massaging and hash, he started feeling really hot, so he opened the door, where he saw a little white slave boy and a big black eunuch carrying a package, and the first slave opened and brought out 3 silk garments, one of which he threw on scamro's head, the next spread gently over his shoulders, and the last girded his waist for decency. The second servant gave his some bath clogs. The scamro put everything on, and then more servants came in and escorted him back to the outer hall, which was now decorated with unbelievable furniture and curtains like you might find at The Trump Penthouse. The whole while, the scamro was laughing. The pages rushed up to seat him on the loveseat.

Then they started massaging his shoulders and back til he became drowsy again, and he dreamt that he had a naked girl in his arms. He kissed her and took her into his lap. He started playing with her soft, smooth skin, and touching her tender parts, including nips and clit. He was all oily and hard by now, so he parted his legs a bit while she pointed her toes, and he took his yard in his hand and hoped to breach the distance to her loincoif swiftly, when all of a sudden, he heard someone say, "Wake up, you degenerate! It's noon, why are you sleeping here?" Scamro opened his eyes and found himself lying at the edge of the water-tap, with people on all sides of him, laughing at him. His dick was hard and he was buck nekkid. He knew it had all been a hash dream, and he was pissed. He yelled, "Couldn't you at least wait 'til I was inside?" The people clucked, "Aren't you even embarrassed? Oh pothead! Sleeping, in the nude, with a boner on top of it, in the middle of our locker room!" Then they slapped him around til his back was red. He stumbled out of the bathhouse into the hot summer day. Now he had the fiercest munchies, and the only flavor he would taste for the remainder of the day, was the hash and his sweet dreams.

Omar Azam constantly thinks about language. Sometimes he thinks without language. Sometimes he writes poetry that is a revolt against the conventions and constraints of language. Omar writes out of Chicago, Illinois. Story originally found in Night 142 of the 1001 Nights.

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