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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The Spear
Part 2

I had to clean up. She read a paperback and when I was done, I locked The Harmony restaurant. We took the train to 79th Street.

We walked the five flights. The strange dark hallways spooked Roxy. Thankfully, I never remembered my nightmares. Darkness kept them sealed off, and lessened the chances for clinical depression and suicide. I had opposite responses than other people.

I opened the rickety door. The landlord wouldn't provide a solid door with a steel bar slotted in a metal groove in the floor, angled into a slot in the door, making break-ins difficult.

"Sit anywhere. Not much furniture, what's here came from city sidewalks."

"Deprivation doesn't mean it'll last forever," she said, taking off her denim jacket.>{?

I pulled two Rhinegolds from the fridge and we sat at the kitchen table. The roaches hadn't yet made their appearance. I hadn't put on WNEW, the best rock station in the city. We drank in silence except when we swallowed beer; noises from our throats I hadn't thought about until then.

"Feel comfortable here?" I asked.

"You mean safe, don't you?"

"That big guy. And the teenager. How are you connected with them?"

"Because I'm Japanese and African, who's related to whom? You don't think that odd, do you?"

"Odd is why you're here and not with them."

Roxy asked for another beer and I grabbed two.

"I have a place of my own that Rip doesn't know about. I want my son Marcus with me but Rip still keeps him hostage. He thinks I'll do whatever he tells me. But not anymore."

"Is he your husband? Where does Marcus come into this?"

"My parents were killed by the French in 1959 in Senegal. I married a Senegalese man after both my parents were killed. A Communist, they imprisoned him so I left for New York."

"Why did they go to Senegal?"

"My parents had to leave Japan. It was war and they were Communists. Militarists would've executed them if they'd stayed in Tokyo. They thought Dakar was safer."

"Ironic, wasn't it." I sounded like a physician asking patients to describe their symptoms.

"Another thing I want you to know. I'm not a citizen but have a green card."

"You can work."

"I teach a clandestine kendo class in Harlem. But I need more money to live and no skills other than kendo."

"So Rip can't find you except at Harmony's."

"Last night was the first time I saw him in five years. Rip blackmailed me. He has evidence linking me with the murder of a racist school administrator."

She rose, stretched, and told me to stand too. She moved her hands as if she held something, aiming for my head, wrists, shoulders, torso, knees, and ankles. Roxy shouted more ferocious with each thrust than I could if highly outraged. But it wouldn't match her bloodthirsty salvos. She looked fierce and beautiful with each blitz.

"You scare the hell out of me," I said, grabbing a beer can and pretending to defend myself. She frowned.

"That tells my opponent I'm supremely charged when I strike him with my kendo black teakwood sword. We're in body armor, of course."

"Would you use kendo on Rip?"

She thought a moment, beads of perspiration on her face.

"The way of the sword, that's what kendo means. It's the samurai code."

"If you had a sword, would you get Marcus back that way?"

"I don't have a sword. I have a Sasaho yari, a long, steel blade, and shaft. A spear."

"I've seen Japanese spears in movies. How'd you get one?"

"My father's grandfather passed it on. I'll give it to you if you come to my place so I can get some things. OK?"

"Are you sure Rip won't be around?"

"We'll go there in the morning. He's a strong sleeper, takes barbiturates to get buried beneath the sod."

"Sure. Around seven a.m.?"

"Fine. Where do I sleep?" I said she could use the loft. I'd sleep on the couch. She won't be working at The Harmony anymore. No need to ask.


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