Unlikely 2.0


   So I returned, and considered all the oppressions that are done under the sun: and behold the tears of such as were oppressed, and they had no comforter; and on the side of their oppressors there was power; but they had no comforter. Wherefore I praised the dead which are already dead more than the living which are yet alive. Yea, better is he than both they, which hath not yet been, who hath not seen the evil work that is done under the sun. —Ecclesiastes 4:1-3


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 RC Miller

Parking

Our history is a wire shoulder of preludes
Crossing through thick
Attic marrow,
And gushing over apples
The unknown condemn.

I'm on and drawing
Out knives of
Accidental generations,
Assaulting my kidnapped victims
With fat snow.

Your suffocation shall be granted
If these bags inflate toxins,
Or else the vacant pods and palaces
Will reward your dice
Some lavishly parked deception.

For us who truly embody
Hammered animation,
A thread of replicated harmony
Provides the strength to continue
Garnishing more hammers.




The Chimney

I admire my message to the rural champions.
I admire my amputation of the lunar sigh.
I am distinctly buried in a fetal position.
The behavior of my vulnerable corridors
Gives your ox its spontaneous genetic frenzy.
So long and elegant is my piss behind this bar stool.

And suddenly there's access to sacred expulsions.
Suddenly my lurking hires an urgent sanctuary.
My despair sells the kids for boxes.
My faith it sells the cat for condiments.
The solar intelligence drags my intestines
Through hair and masks like an open-legged hemlock.

And the ape it strokes
Its cereal with toothpaste on toilet paper.
The pebble it skips
A spelling of a same pile two years late.
As a solider I balance
My sword inheriting total clot control.

O indeed I'm blended, but sit down motherfucker,
I still pray
For fragments within me to judge what's small and tragic.
The crops they're whipping like motherfuckers,
And I'm hit while praying
Those sirens are hungry for my manicured image.

And it goes without saying
I'm full of the real paradox.
Birth after birth,
My stringy pollen layers itself
To prime the infant's waning grill.

O it goes without saying,
My grand birth of afterbirths
Is a dim passage
Where shepherds may scratch inscriptions
Into you
Who cannot forget his stolen egg sky.




Candy Necklace Car

My steak gets wild while pursuing your carpeted paradise.
My mind expands due to trendy gadgets
Taxing turkey sausage and a flawed condom
Splattered on the flinching sidewalk.

It's shocking how photographs
Probe the inner emotions of holidays,
And successfully signal an imprinted doomsday
That cares so much for nailclippers buttfucking mortality.

And yes it's shocking how precisely
My new master stares
At each of my treasons as if his cheese
Rapes a digital membrane queen.

The rent checks slip on passed out candy.
I'm shocked stiff, protecting my drugs
From an identity load of divine iron junk
Awake and hunting.

The same old story, the population is groggy,
Screens and diets discuss their titties
Like a broiled lamb chop
Saving birthday decoys from migraines.

I may be vague, but I assure you I'm not ill.
With every mile, my prison becomes more marketable,
Capturing these poses in a committed spotlight
Crawling back to the irresistible burning.


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RC Miller was born 1974 in Parkersburg, West Virginia, and currently lives in New York City. He may be found at VisionBlues.blogspot.com.