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 David LaBounty

spitting sideways into the wind

closing time,
a vanished sun,
the December
snow and rain
falling sideways
soaking and
frosting everything
and it was
a GMC Jimmy
and she parked
it right in front
of the door

wandered in

her and
her teenage
daughter or
maybe
granddaughter
I couldn't tell
because
she was
far from put
together as

her hair was
wet and greasy
and her glasses
sat on top of
a bulbous nose
which sat upon
a creased face
which sat upon
a stooped body
underneath a
leopard print
jacket that seemed
like so much
camouflage,
probably
hiding cigarette
ashes and
French fry crumbs.

my truck,
she said,
we just left
the mall and
I think there's
something with
the left front
tire because
it thumps and
the truck shakes

and I was ready
to lock the door,
ready to drink
beer and meet
some friends and
watch football
while studying
the heaving
breasts that are
always leaning
over the bar.

I took her keys
and drove her
Jimmy through
my parking lot
and the tires
were so bald
that it slid
every time I
turned but there
was no shaking
or clunking
but a growl

you need tires
and probably
a hub assembly
I said as she
shivered outside
the front door
and I wasn't
going to let
her back in
unless she
wanted to
buy something

I know, she
said, but I
got laid off
and moved
back here
to stay with
her, and she
nodded at
the teenage
girl who
was staring
at the moon
and chewing
her own hair, I moved
back here because

He

left and
do you have
used tires?

no, I said,
and I thought
about karma
as I spit on
the ground
and walked
back in the
shop. I locked
the door and
tugged on it twice.




Family Gathering or Another Reason to Drink

a hollow holiday,
a half-formed
casual circle
of bad skinned
pale faces
splashed crimson
red, thin
red lips held
in place with
smiles contrived
and
the blood is
common,
connected,
and has
to be thinned
with beer
or maybe
scotch or
wine because
no one laughs
or smiles
or even
likes each
other when
the blood
moves
so slow
and thick
and true.


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David LaBounty lives in Royal Oak, Michigan with his wife and two young sons. He served in the Navy for four years and worked at a gold mine in the Nevada desert. He's had jobs as a mechanic, a reporter and a salesman. His novel, The Trinity, has just been released by Silverthought Press.