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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Dead or Alive
by Alain Marciano

It starts well for a Sunday. Like, it is not a Sunday at all. It's nine-something AM and big grey clouds have invaded the sky, but they look friendly. The air is cool. Rain is coming. It smells spring and sun, bush fires and wet dirt. It is one of those cool days. I haven't slept for the last two days. I did not shit either. Did not eat anything. I just drank, quietly intoxicated myself for the sake of it. I am truly and perfectly alone in my small apartment—no friend left and my wife had divorced me some time ago. She took the kids away from me. I am out of work—two days ago I lost my job in which I never had any interest. I am a failure, a good-for-nothing; but I feel great. I am drunk, but I feel really great. I am achieving something, and, although I don't know if I am feeling great because I am a failure or the other way around, I don't care—knowing does not mean a thing; it's all about feeling, and feeling good makes the difference; it makes me feel alive.

I stand up. There is some wine left in the glass. I sip it. I try to get up, but my body weighs tons. My legs are weak; I never had strong limbs. My mother never had a strong body, nor my father, and my brother had a record of broken arms and legs. I fall down on the couch—old stuff. I try again and it works better; it is always better the second time. I stagger to the window. I open it. There is only one car in the parking lot. The homeless shits who frequent the place are quiet. They do not move—probably sleeping. I shout feebly, "I AM THE KING OF THE WORLD." Nothing happens. I hate the bastards. All of them. I despise them, the worst failures in the world. Defeated losers. I go back to the couch, lay down, and say again, "I AM THE KING OF THE WORLD." My world, a world in which no one has a right to come it. A world in which I am the only one alive. They are all dead. My kindgom is alive. It vibrates with life.

I switch the TV on and put a DVD in the DVD player. It is one of the movies I had picked up just before I was fired. The boss fired me because I am a chickenshit (his words) and said that he'd rather do the job himself than let me—he stopped. "PLEASE!" I had pleaded. I can be dumb sometimes. I wanted to express that I felt sorry. He raised his hands, "Don't. No apologies. No reasons. You're WRONG." Exactly what my wife kept saying to our children. "HE is WRONG. Don't trust him." She did not like me either. I am as right as any one of the others and it makes a hell of a difference when people don't like you. They don't even know what they want you to do. They just complain and hate you. You can do your job, be a good husband, and they don't care. They are prejudiced bastards. I think the same of people who do like you: bastards, too.

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