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 David McLean

diverted by language

the words that pervert us
can entertain us too,
and enter as guests
groping for nothing,
like lonely ghosts
at home

poetry is an excellent
hobby, Mr. Smith,
for us who do not imagine
extraneous things, like words
that actually succeed in meaning
things, and menacing
the nothing, like budgerigars,
orgasms, and kittens

poetry is like drinking —
a cheaper semantic


night could be snow-blind a while
as time accumulates justice,
just deposits in the blood,
like love in the liver,
meaning nowhere

and we assembled us
out of the tiny crystals,
and their living
crawling back within
this nothingness
a night is,
timeless abyss
washed with sulphate,
tears, and memories

still times fall around us
fallaciously, there are no memories
there, worth recording, the girth
of dismal decades where years went,
forgetful, like re-membering the eighties,

snow-blind still, this is history
willing ill, and children collected
corpses on day's brutal beach,
mysterious timeless will
of sodden washed-up
god, tired witless
sodden log

his myriads of mindless frogs
love him like nothing,
a prayer lost
blowing in this fatal wind
like an autumn leaf,
like sand corns on a beach,
dead as his living
belief, the truth resurrection
bled, it bleeds
yet, worthless and

this appropriate unreason

this madness is the suicide of argument
and logic, so appropriate when meanings
whore themselves, to regulate bodies
and feelings that know their own reasons,

the myth of words' godly origin is the sewer
they shit in, oblivious soul-seers and their
dismal dreams, policing peoples in the popular
voice, listless lepers dropping fingers

and feeble unreason, curative fascism dictating
a day's dogmatic oblivion, the cock-sucker's clock
they follow, the ambulant mad dressed in white
like torturers and whores — reason's final

night, as ever, dressed in liar's white

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David McLean has a chapbook, a hunger for mourning by erbacce press on sale at Lulu, an electronic chapbook with Why Vandalism?, and a forthcoming full length book with Whistling Shade Press in April or May 2008, Cadaver's Dance. Check out his blog at http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com/.