Unlikely 2.0


   [an error occurred while processing this directive]


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


Join our Facebook group!

Join our mailing list!


Print this article


an excerpt from Moon on Mandara
Part 5

"Quite frankly, Mr. Brahma," said the New York City Editor, "it's not very good." And to his secretary, a young poet fresh from writing school: "Flaky fellow, this." Then he continued dictating the letter: "This is not for us, although you are a good writer. We wish you better luck elsewhere." Brahma called the editor after getting the letter. The editor was out. To lunch. In a meeting. Out of town. Not to be disturbed. Brahma would not leave a message. And finally one day he got through. "The material has possibilities," said the editor at last. "Take my advice. Try a magazine article first. Get your skills sharpened. Try something on the Raj. The two races in an adulterous embrace. Take this Mohini person and let her seduce a British policeman. Let the sweat show through his khaki. Get her pregnant. Get with it, man. Come out of the trenches, pal."

But it was the editor that Mohini clutched to her fabulous bosom. Mohini wouldn't let go of him. In the night it was Mohini who sailed into bed with him. And once at the Berkshire Hotel Bar he saw Mohini playing ball. The bartender didn't seem to take any notice of her. But there she was, a high-born Indian lady, tapping languidly at a tennis ball, following the course of the bouncing ball around the tables of corporate executives flirting equally languidly with pretty women in business suits. Mohini was dressed in silk, and a golden girdle circled her waist. She stretched her tender legs to pursue the ball, now stooping, now raising her chest, her eyes never leaving the ball, never letting it get away, not missing a bounce.

The New York City Editor forgot himself. Forgot the other patrons at the bar. Forgot the not-yet-famous author by his side who sat respectfully, silently wondering at the unusual distractedness of his editor, wondering if, perhaps, the editor knew already that the reviews of his latest book in the Sunday papers would be unfavourable.




"At the Hong Kong Hilton they serve monkey brains at the bar," said a voice at the bar in New York.

"That's the Orient," replied his companion.


"No, really. They serve it on the shell, so to speak. Off with its scalp and the thing is conscious when its brain is picked."

"Oh John. Let's talk of nicer things. Not monkey brains."




" Do you believe in Ghosts?" Her blonde hair hung to her neck in strings.

"Sort-a. What about you?

"I'm spooked all the time."

"We must be going soon."

"I have seen ghosts. You gotta believe it."

"Gotta train to catch in twenty minutes. Down the hatch now."




And there was Mohini in and around those tables playing ball while men with desire in their eyes picked out women, and sometimes men, in various parts of the room, and undressed them, slowly, meticulously and never quite getting to the end. And the women responded with icy negligence. But no one saw Mohini. No one knew she was there. Tapping her ball, leaping forward and then back as the ball impulsively jumped high and then low again so that Mohini's heavy, tremulous bosom and the string of pearls around her neck, as she reached forward, were too much burden and it seemed as if she must snap in two in the middle, where most frail.

The New York City Editor followed the woman and her ball all around the room crowded with drinkers. He saw her panting from her exertions and then he saw the end of her delicate silken saree catch under the leg of a chair which had just been drawn back to allow a pale woman with blond strings on her head to step out.

Mohini struggling to get at her ball spun round. And round. Breaking free from the yards of silk that held her captive. The New York City Editor could not bear it any longer. He rushed to the naked woman pursuing her ball. He caught the toy and stopped the game. The heavy-hipped woman, her hair dishevelled, looked down at her nudity and blushed.

Continued...