Unlikely 2.0


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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 Jim Benz

Bullet Soup

John Kerry wrote me an email today
thanking me for rewriting the book on grassroot politics.
He went on to flatter me with real nice platitudes
then told me to grab my shotgun
so we could start the real work of holding those SOBs
acountable, he said.
If we could take campaign control
away from those big fucking donors
and still lose this thing,
we might as well start filling bottles with gasoline,
march down to the nearest Sinclair Broadcasting shit hole
and burn the mother fuckers out
along with any corporate Diebold stooge that stands with em.
Lets roll up our sleeves, boys, and get back to work
for our country, he said
because the bastards are out to dump your sorry ass job, bub,
thats right
and line their pockets with your sweat, blood and copays.
He really said this, kind of poetic and unshaven.
Now Im sort of a pacifist, but Ive got this old 12 gauge
and a couple boxes of shells.
I was dreaming of killing the president myself
but knew Id have to do Cheney first
and hes a crafty son of a bitch to take down all by myself,
so when John Kerry invites
me to a liberal berzerker justice mob of hate-filled millions,
Im packing my household chemicals,
all set to do some big time door knocking.
Well get those eight million children some insurance
by God, were taking over,
and ol Johns gonna chase that mother fucker Bush down
and kill him
damn right, you betcha.
Were fighting for principles, values and peace.
Let me get my gun.




Pit Stains

gray iron gears streaked by tedium vapor
muscles labor aged in low wage zone
solid state controls the ache
and broken cycle spine, ennui dripped
forehead, underarm, ripen smell

empty eye works from task to chore, work glove
hand on task again, seven times a minute
heard pneumatic whooshes
clang of steel, vacant thoughts
squirm from every mortal zerk like dog shit swirls

concrete pit, machine beside the console
one man eaten screamed his life away
iron tears, flesh of torn remorse
unpunched timecard, mourn the empty slot
a last rung bell, stiffened blood

years ago but fresh as pain
rhythmic gear clunk
once frantic shouts now echo dust
anecdote of the rarely spoken
death, mangled silence

old cogs make the product
whistle still, shake
a dollar head and scowl
rites of boredom
seven times a minute


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Jim Benz is just some guy from Minneapolis.