Unlikely 2.0


   Barn's burnt down— now I can see the moon. —Masahide


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

the visible dead

the visible dead outside me
the invisible dead inside;

they are not memories
to which i may lay claim

as mine, they are others
and nothing forgotten,

forgetful themselves as time,
absences and lies




the light burrows through the sky

the light burrows through the sky
like a demented vole
intent on torturing us
by showing us everything,
all there is or ever was,
and screaming "this is very little,
children;"

so the light screams at us of demonic dreams
and the shortcomings of reason,
but though we may be children
we are blind and deaf,
we do not listen.

we are perverse and love our nothings,
so go on living for beer is in each bottle
like a nipple equipped for war,
and time is there too, a spinster aunt
with memories

so we are children high on dreams and glue,
we do not care what the vole saw
for we are myopic little moles
and perspicacity is boring,
we do not listen to him—
we assume he's kidding




escaping

when we escape it is from nowhere
and no body gets in another body's
way, there is no shortage of space
to fall, we are going nowhere
fast enough from no place
at all

just memories and departures
and waiting desolate
on dusty platforms
where once there were trains
that did not wait for us
and there was love once

we escape but memory
remains, the blood is lost
on carpets, forgotten
a memory stains


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David McLean has a blog at MourningAbortion.blogspot.com where he gives details of several books and chapbooks, as well as two forthcoming chapbooks, a forthcoming novella and a large 300-page anthology, laughing at funerals, due 2010/01/01 from Epic Rites Press. He edits a couple of zines and the chapbooks at Epic Rites.