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 Joseph Robert

A Poem for the Needy

"Hey, buddy," says a huge, taupe bear, holding out a red charity bucket,
coin rattling, dancing a jig on Hammersmith Broadway. "Hey, buddy."

You are Icee ice and icily ignore an anthropomorphic ursine's likely
fraudulent plea, you got Merwin to peruse and tea, back at the flat.

Later, amidsips, lost in a Merlin bit of blue bear-ed damsel, bad noise,
woodscream, the Broadway bear breaches your door with a crowbar.

You flinch, the bear advances in, throws its crowbar at your bookshelf;
the vibe is all too like a good bit of a bad George R. R. Martin novel.

Bear stands still, you start shouting; in reply to your order for sense,
it goes "Hey, buddy, hey buddy, hey buddy, hey buddy, hey, hey buddy,"

Chanting, "Hey, buddy, hey buddy, hey, hey buddy," it shuffles forward
You draw your mobile and tap, tap, tap The Filth. Bad bear bats it away.

"Hey, buddy," its knee crashes into your gut, reeling pain and stars,
Massive paws spin you round, grab the scruff of your neck, and push,

Your head under the dishwashing waters of your kitchen sink.
This is murder as performance art, flattering, being involved, the piece

Your lungs breathe longingly the soapwater grease, drowning in relief,
You have nothing to be embarrassed about.

Postmodern Chimp on Patrol

The Christian soldier plays his drone in lazy, closing circles
Over the wedding of a known and suspected bomb maker's cousin

Michael drinks displays, for in all creation His magic judgment dwells
Kid's violinist hand, a sinew twitch, millisecond after optimum

But it's good enough at apogee

As his namesake angel cast Lucifer's legions from the stars,
So he makes the party breath His fire, covers them with their own walls

Jericho! Jericho! Hallelujah!
Drone on with your hymns, young man

The boy's Shaman recites approbation throughout snarled grey matter
Positron Emission Tomography lit up, like a Christmas tree


Everybody always loves hearing the story of cousin Ritchie at the Zoo,
As we, a tribe united, sit again at seasonal, holiday board,
Of how Ritchie ran, tripped and chipped a tooth,
After that lion roared,
I roar,
I act out the kids up-thrown arms, imitate his absent soprano scream,
Of course we leave out the part about him pissing his pants,
Because the leukemia got the better of him, 3 (or 4?) summers back,
After they laugh, and I say 'ahhh, Ritchie,' we sit in silence,
They pretending it's quiet communion,
While I know they're all lost in their own heads,
One of them, at length, clears their throat and busts up my necromancy,
And then their gravy tastes even better.

Joseph Robert detests poems about orchards and racists, not poems about racists, but actual racists. He is 190 centimetres tall, is a firm believer that the Guinness in Dublin is the best due to the rats in the vats, and drinks Bushmills whisky. He likes visiting orchards when the fruit is ripe.

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