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 Lyn Lifshin

When, at the Ballet Barre, the Mad Girl Realizes

the only relief,
that she could
end it all, this
going thru the
motions. She is
sick of fantasy
being more real
than her life.
On the metro,
only gray. In
ballet, the gray
leaks in thru
her skin, braids
with a litany
of dreads. She
can't remember
when she stopped
looking ahead
but only backward




Ballroom, Reading Room

Bring a book, better
make it two. Or a whole
encyclopedia. When you
see the guys in class, a
book's like a fan shy
Victorians hid behind.
If you don't want your
spine ripped off like some
one dumping a truck load
of books at a landfill.
Bring a book: too many
of the new dancers are
that rough in tango. I
used to think it odd, one
woman with her nose
in a book but now I sit
down when the hulk,
the motorcycle (or lets
call him falling off his
motorcycle) man moves
toward me. And if the
stench of garlic isn't for
you, bring a book as
a shield to escape to
the bench or safer go in
another room, say the
kitchen. Behind a book
you look serious, not
just trying to escape
the ones who wrench
your arm out of a socket,
turn toes blood. A book
is a noli me tangere
sign, do not touch me.
When the best ones
aren't dancing, believe
me, take a book




It Was Like

someone who throws
away silver coins,
of her favorite horse
because when her
lover left, betrayed
her, she felt if she
couldn't have them,
what he gave her,
no one else could.
She said when she
threw them out she
felt those coins,
inspiring reverence,
each of Secretariat's
wins crossing the
finish line, were a
betrayal of all that
inspired reverence
as he had and if she
could not have him
she would have no
thing he gave her,
became a betrayer
herself


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Lyn LifshinLyn Lifshin's Another Woman Who Looks Like Me was published by Black Sparrow in 2006 and selected for the 2007 Paterson Award for Literary Excellence. Also out in 2006 was The Licorice Daughter: My Year with Ruffian from Texas Review Press. Lifshin's recent books include Before It's Light (Black Sparrow, 2000), Cold Comfort (Black Sparrow, 1997), In Mirrors (Presa Press), Upstate: An Unfinished Story (Foot Hills) and The Daughter I Don't Have (Plan B Press). Her poems have appeared in most literary and poetry magazines and she is the subject of a film, Lyn Lifshin: Not Made of Glass, from Women Make Movies. Her web site is www.lynlifshin.com.