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 Nathaniel Ogle

to my peers

"And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
                  Not shaking the grass."


hitherto,
i've seen no
specialness
in my generation.
nor in myself.
i pity
the lineage,
and those who
will see the
new stars.
flames old,
and knotted tight
in the burning sky.
for they will
have nothing
to offer.
we might
as well
be scarecrows,
propped up,
a sturdy stick
firmly stuck
up our ass,
and up to
our knees
in shit,
our beautiful,
skin-tight jeans
covered in shit,
doing a job
we don't even
know we're
doing.
trying desperately
with music
and clothes
and ideas
and attitudes
and poetry
and loves
and hates
to arouse
whims
of specialness.
a specialness that
is so rare
you have more chance
shitting pure
24 carat gold.
the new stars
looking upon
us
with disdain
and disappointment:
our dull,
empty,
lifetime.




the hand of god castrated me

i had tremendous trouble
killing a spider
last night.

it hung there over
my bed like a terrible
a cursed picture.

i wanted to put it
in a glass and
throw it out the window.

(you know humanely)

but i couldn't,
i was terrified:
the fear gripped me;

i couldn't do it,
i was frozen there:
a statue holding a shoe.

i bit my lip... moaned...
and crushed
that motherfucker.

i didn't feel
too great
afterwards;

but i slept
like a good
boy should,

like a cowardly
little boy,
i slept

a coward, trigger-
happy with the
hand of god.

shame
doused my eyes
and my brain.

but
i
slept.

that's right
you motherfucker,
i slept.


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