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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Gottfried Helnwein's Boulevard of Broken Dreams
by George Sparling

Gottfried Helnwein's Boulevard of Broken DreamsFirst, James Dean died, then Humphrey Bogart two years later, then Marilyn Monroe's turn, Elvis Presley coming fourth. The large, rectangular poster I bought for $10 at a reprocessing center (recycle this, death) hangs in my bedroom on the way to the bathroom. We all know Edward Hopper's Nighthawks, three frail strangers (nobodies) sit at the counter and a man (working class zero) behind the counter serving late-nite coffee to anonymous, fictitious nothings. Premature dead performers (somebodies) now replace the diner patrons surrounded by the same lonely, back lot street corner.

They might have excelled with a script written for such a skeletal, B-movie set. Bold caricatures, images of catastrophic, airbrushed entertainers' notorious faces, a scheme dedicated to accentuate death's grip (that's a wrap). The four's memento mori performer's estates' second coming, a wet dream gone public.

I lived with the four at one time or another; they replenished my life, showed me feature movies, but a greater glory they hadn't truly earned, their five-star deaths (coming attractions) unavailable as yet. Their films I'd not likely see if not for star-making paraphernalia. Like runaway dreams, their box office hits splice onto celluloid specters, jump cut revivals. Such lit-up faces in otherwise noirish gloom of this Greenwich Village coffee shop, now a vacant lot.

I ascend from sleep, I among the stars' audience amok in my Technicolor, lingering wakeup nightmares. In a close up, my eye tracks the fours' still life, their permanent midnight. I piss their barbiturates, painkillers, cancer cells, and highway blood into the publicity-churning, award-winning, porcelain (Do I hear a film score?) action-packed flushed toilet.

Ah death, ah celebrity.

George Sparling says, "I live on the North Coast of California. I like the death of rain, each drop blood from the Void. I'm currently reading Don Carpenter's Hard Rain Falling. Suffering and pain bleeds on every page. My real life is the space between words on a page, a blank. Though an atheist by default, I have a print on my wall by John Martin, a 19th Century painter of "The Great Day of the Divine Wrath," fiery red flame, its dark, catastrophic clouds cracking earth apart, relief at last that our stinking entrails have sunk into oblivion."

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