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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Three Poems by C. Derick Varn

Hallelujah, Anyway

Oedipa can't turn away: the aphids' red glare
on the roses stems and red ants trailing scurrying
for the honey dew. Oedipa can't turn away
as gasoline fire creeps to the blooms.

Oedipa sighs as the exoskeletons pop and
spread across her field of vision. A fireman's
hands pull her back from the burning bush
and the crackling thoraces. Oedipa's steps

stutter from the smell. The exodus of
each tiny life mutes her tongue
while she wishes to say a prayer for
the driver of the pick-up, who

no longer moves as gloved hands
pull him out of the driver's seat. Oedipa
does not understand one man's muttered words:
aleynu v'al kohl yisrael v'eemru. Amein.




The Scarred Feet Say It All

The regulars never notice Oedipa's
feet. Varicose veins mark
the ankles of her legs.

Each time she touches
these scars, she is reminded
of her father's barbed wire
left in the tall grass and the

whites of her doctor's eyes
as she cried for her father
who did not answer. When
a beloved touches her

toes, she always whimpers.
She doesn't know if it is from
pain or the lack of pain.




Castillo de San Marcos, August 1994

Oedipa breathes the brine,
runs her hands across
the old, bleached
bricks that guard
St. Augustine

from the ocean.
The gravel
scratches
her hands,
the dirt in her skin
is a feel she doesn't
wish to name. Oedipa
sees the cannon

in this old Saint's
city. In the midday heat
of the off-season, all's
quiet despite the
implied blast. The
tide laps at the shore.
She shuts her
eyes and imagines

God's eyes closed
like a drunken lover
sleeping at the bar
who doesn't hear last call,
who doesn't answer
when the beloved's
hands try to rouse
him, who is,
above all things,
quiet.


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Derick sincerely believes that everyone needs to dance around their house naked at least once a week; in addition to that, being declared an ethicist has made him a general misanthrope. Most good ethicists are. He loves tomatoes and thinks that loving such fruit is profound. He does not like to speak in third-person because he understands that it is a sign of true insanity, but so is literature. He has vowed no longer to be witty in biographies that are included in literary journals of any medium.