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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Two Poems by Dennis Mahagin


A picket fence is nothing
but a xylophone to the ephemeral kid,
he's picked out his sticks
in this instant
from a dumpster, formerly for stirring
paint, a cat tail whippet in the next,
comes by my wake, but for now
he's got this giant two-step, as if to slip
on banana peel, the peacock colors of the sticks
a timpani system for mysterious
Oh kid, you got it, you hit it,
here at the passing away
of one day unto another, he feels it,
he does,
I whisper, and he does,
for this day, this instant
is all about
rattling sixteenths unconcerned
as steel wheels on tracks,
as if he's twelve
prayers of player
in one body, easy
syncopation lifting to strike, then holding
it back, those simple purple and pastel
sticks gripped so loosely,
with a prodigy's nonchalance, half
of the fist, the rest sort of fizzing pure
like mizzen mast, lifting ocean's mist,
and the splinters make a perfect brush, fit
for Tito Puente.
What a trip, kid, those fricking
riffs, here at my wake, I tell this
semi angelic one,
in vanilla doo rag, bolo tie, silver Beatle boots,
all that static electric, streaming
out the side: what pride of the neighborhood
is this? His long thin limbs, on the cusp of deciding
which trills to skip, and which to flip, unto fill,
this minute, some grandstand featuring Buddy
Rich, his lips locked
on a duck bill and eyeing just those
sticks, frog's head bobbing,
nodding, bobbing,
I'm thrilled as any poor thing, passing,
as a matter of course in this instant, from the ass
end of this almost winter street, I listen
as the moment
greets those ghost sprinkler heads
in the round, the last of the dearly departed
summer, and they whisper back
and forth,
so quick while leaves rain
down rain, the colors so furiously
frantic as if to attempt mating
with the birds,
the birds in the time called
fall, the time left, set to music . . .
That's it, that's it, kid, find your licks,
transitory and sublime, here at my winter
wake, we tap along
in time, we tap and tap
taps, and go

Captain Melvin Scarbino's Fortune Cookie for Jet Lag

You are going
now, to ascend, over the snow fall
and flurries, over all the worldly cares
of the towns and tombs
go on, and make your
boarding gate at Heathrow,
Dulles, good souls on a red eye
coming home the old
fashioned way, by a plane
boss, and life
is briefly sane, or
at the least

and you are so
going to be there, going
somewhere, oh as we say, the people
sway, so many inevitable
passengers, Stevie Wonders
with aisle seats that kick back,
beaded dreadlocks, ear buds pop
a kind of mangled angel shakes you
awake, drops you off with a smile
of yellow taxi for half a mile
of tarmac, sun glint on chrome
in this bright morning sun . . .
You're the blessed one, a thousand
mistakes turning
now, in your favor,
bank right, barrel roll, the sudden rudder
flaps, beauty nap defies every iteration
of roar, and pain, and care, for you
are the Rocket Person:
we bask

in your glare.

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