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!

Three Poems by Zoë Etkin


I gather up all the gods inside me
bloom them into blood-flowers
stomach them

They ripple my belly like a pregnancy—

I'm not I'm not I'm not
trying to birth them

Once in my childhood the sky opened
and rained down gods
and I drank them up

I never told my mother
I never told anyone

Dark Father

Unbind the white feet
white legs, hair
black branches scattered
on new snow

My father swathed in black
cotton, locked in a block of ice
To the outside he is all color
paint-swirled canvas

But to me, ice-stuck,
he has marked himself out
and with his marker
drawn absurd figures

Men with bicycle feet
women with dick-tits
me, floating,
an egg baby, coiled
to my mother's torso

To him, I am embryonic
or have too many ears
he grotesques me

Locked under an ice chest
what breaks is brain matter
the hot light of the mind
cutting through

Our sameness shakes me awake at night
my hands flashing, his hands flashing

The West

The west was breathing—
I put my hand to it, felt its lungs rise

I lay my atoms down in the sand
and let them fuse to glass

I stood on the earth outside
knowing that one day
not a single light would come on

Too many things were alive
until they weren't anymore

You were a house made of plastic
tipping over the short horizon

I was sharp for you
I could hear your rattle

There was day long enough to hold you
Your body shining in the last light

you were covered in black ash
you were the city caught on fire

You were Los Angeles
and all your plastic was melting

Soon, I hoped, we would wake up
be able to stretch enough
to contain the budding sky
the sky that someone made

It wasn't me
I didn't make the palms
I didn't make the matches

Let's go to the open mouth of the basin
the overflowing bowl of cars and single family homes

Toward it, toward the mountain and beyond
our limbs outstretched
bodies in full force

Pin It       del.icio.us