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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When Are You, Ms. Greenblatt
by Ray Succre

Will be harsh.

Less is bayonets which gain, consequently,
the address to the red preserves in lips.

Could it be a poem fringed in glitch-glister,
just one, or a salad of termini dissipates?
That those crisp leaves were the first to cut counsel
with this electric sweet cyclostyle
is when.

Or eager pages, a spot in the rottery guaranteed.

Have any learned less, which affixes nothing,
unsported, new fewer posts at the top of a hill,
some clemency less forgotten than when,
and becoming a temporal irresponse, or else
juice reamer fluid overrunning arms
into an arch, citric footprint.

To be lively or brilliant or exhibit virtuosity,
a leniency to be forgotten, to be like when,
when the fifty thousand sadly sinking waves
travel more to carry mortality, or to prevent it
from knowing the more fashionable torments,
when, bites of the non-release in a mirror,
when, consequently, the lottery
in the lottery is a history.

No more when, to the top of the mouth.
Yet, one can kindle a reminder
of how the court continues to try,
implement a recall in the way
the court continues to test.
Or, for you, up to the mountainside.
Or, for you, to the mountain.

[Author's Note:] "I had some correspondence with Michelle many years back, around the time my pseudonym, Ray Succre, was being reviewed in Unlikely Stories by Gabriel Ricard. Around '08/'09. I had run into quite a bit of her poetry in the small press, and developed a writer's crush on this person who I knew very little about. I didn't see any pictures of her, and little in the way of a bio, and I just found her work to be so impressive, with a monstrously good ear. Whenever I encountered something she had written, I always came away from it feeling as if I knew that work, as if it and I had hung out often. There was a rare quality within her work that could make readers feel it was a special thing that had been found, and that was somehow just for them. I later had some work published in a kind of project (I think it was called 'The Eye'), which had a unique setup in which an author could publish there, provided he/she had been invited by a prior writer, and upon publication, if accepted, would then be responsible for a single invitation to another writer for possible consideration. There were many rules surrounding it. I got in, and Michelle was my choice for the next invite. I had trouble even procuring an email address for this mysterious person. This was during that period of time when she had somewhat dropped out of the small press for awhile. I finally got an email address, made my invitation and sent it. I didn't hear back for months. During that time, I wrote a poem about her, and how I missed her presence in the small press. I'm not certain I ever sent it anywhere, and I'm definitely certain she never saw it; as much as I love poetry, writing about someone and then letting them see it has always been nerve-wracking and unpleasant. When I did hear back from her about the invitation, she was very apologetic about having not seen my email. I don't think she was ever included in the project, but we exchanged a few emails after that, and I thought she was cool as hell. Eventually, we did the Facebook thing like so many others (that's how Ricard and I ended up being pals, too), and had some nice conversations there. There was always a specific spot in my eye for her posts, and I looked forward to them much. I wish I could say more about her, but it's as if there are two Michelle Greenblatts in my head. One suffered much pain and seemed, well, like a person one could know, and the other is a mysterious writer of incredible poetry with no contact information whose work I read with much appetite.

"I know it's a little odd, but my actual name is Robin Morrison, and I'm not really Ray Succre anymore, though that's how she knew me. Should you choose to include the poem in the issue, whichever name feels more appropriate to you is fine with me. At this point, there's such a separation between my old publishing self and my current life that even this submission feels off. It's like playing baseball on a boat.

"This is rambling and probably too personal, but thanks for hearing me out."

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