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

Join our Facebook group!

Join our mailing list!

She's a Steal
by J.Donnelly

The first time I saw her she was standing in the front window of a store straightening an oil painting that reminded me of a topographical map. It looked like the artist was trying to layer paint until it formed a 3D model rather than simply a picture. For some inexplicable reason I wasn't surprised when I went inside the store and she told me it was hers; she had the stereotypical black hair and thin body of the artists I'd seen while attending college.

She had a Chinese symbol tattooed on her neck. It meant unique.

        She told me that the painting took her weeks to finish but she needed the money, it was a steal at $1395. She told me she lived sale to sale, but taking me out to lunch wouldn't dig into her bank account too much. The tiny Italian restaurant we went to was called Angel's. She had the linguine and I ordered the seafood bisque. She spoke mostly about herself, but when I was talking, she wasn't waiting her turn, she was listening.

She liked the smell of sweaty socks.

        We exchanged phone numbers when we parted ways. I told her that I had a business meeting in New York once a month and I would call her the next time I arrived there. I mentioned that if she didn't have a boyfriend in a month, I would take her out to dinner. Her skin turned the pink, velvety softness of a peach and I kissed her cheek, thanking her again for the painting.

She played tackle football with her brothers in the fall.

        The next month, I called her. She didn't have a boyfriend; she wanted me to take her out to dinner. She said she had a present for me. The bright crimson dress she wore clung to her top and fluttered in the wind above her knees. She purchased me a book about building a home by hand—I’d mentioned I wanted to do so at Angel's. She spoke of the connection that had formed between us, and said she knew I would call.

She once punched a mugger.

        At dinner, I told her that I was thinking about moving to New York. She invited me to stay at her place for the night. When we arrived there, she informed me that she didn't have a TV; she believed it rots the brain, and that if she didn't love the city so much, she would live by the ocean. She had a tattoo of a heart on her pubic bone and she said it tickled when I kissed her there. In the morning I told her I would be back in a month; if she could start looking around for places for me to rent I’d be ready to move by then.

She started using vanilla shampoo because I told her it was my favorite smell.

        On the phone, before I returned for the third time, I told he there was something important that I had to tell her; she agreed to meet me at the train station—there was something important she had to tell me, too.

She cries during Disney movies.

        Like an old black and white movie, our eyes met through the windows of the train; as I walked down the aisle to meet her, I slipped off my wedding ring and put it into my pocket. She jumped into my arms as I hopped off the train. She whispered in my ear that she was three weeks late.

Pin It       del.icio.us