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 Alex Galper
Translated by Misha Delibash

less than a second

the car in front
slammed on the breaks : halt!
i learned to keep a distance
and stop
inches away
intuitively glance into the rear view mirror
a jeep is coming
up on me from behind, fast;
the driver is on the phone
in seconds he'll notice
that i'm at a standstill
but it'll be too late.
he'll slam into me
with the full force of
rear collision
i'll be thrown forward,
driving my front bumper
through the one parked in front;
there ain't nothing to do now
will the bags work...?
i lean back and press my head against the headrest...
less than a second left.




Up to the Heavens

Outside, on a different planet
somewhere
Arctic winds chill
to the bone
and winter bites.
But here :
in a Palestinian hole
on E. 2nd
it is hot: carpets, pillows, hummus, a plate of kebabs.
My friend
commands respect here
for his fluent Arabic.
A former Mossad,
he pulls on his apple hooka
smiles
at the waiter and
whispers into my ear:
"...How many o'our boys they's
killed...
how many o'theirs
I'd packed up
into the heavens!"




blood

a fifth of brandy
drunk (spilled?)
under the table
at a turkish joint
then we tongue wrestled
till dropping off the chairs
the turks got furious
and threw us out, screaming:
"those damn russians!"
in the stairwell you jumped
to kiss me midflight
i missed a step
tumbling down the stairs
ripped my coat and
cracked my head blood open
at home i ate your cunt
guessing
the taste of the blood on my tongue
whose was it:
your cunt's or mine.


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Alex GalperAlex Galper was born in Kiev, Ukraine and has been writing poems and short stories since he could remember. Immigrating to America at the age of nineteen did not change it; to the contrary, majoring in Creative Writting at Brooklyn College and being mostly influenced by American poets created a fusion of Russian pessimism, Jewish humor and Western literary traditions and philosophy. Translations of his poems appeared in over thirty magazines in the USA and the UK. In his homeland, he is considered a cult underground poet whereas mainstream Russian literary magazines ignore him for luck of respect for rhymes, heavy erotic imagery, and being "too American". Check out his new book, Fish de Jour.