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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What You Lose When You're Weak, You Take Back When You're Strong
by Jon Alan Carroll

Two stalkbrokers walking down Defeat Street, herd on the street, redlight, greenlight, night light beer, have you ever seen somebody walking down the street and wanted to rip his/her pants off, well, now you can, but he kept telling himself: Do not talk to myself, Do not talk to myself today at all, but he couldn't help it, the Ideas overflowed his brain, they were bigger than his head, he had to obey the Crazy Laws, penalties were severe, he walked into the 1st Global Bank and got in line.

He had his bankers-drag and his gun, he had that much left, sunglasses over his crazy-eyes, but, factual factness, real reality, his shoes were cop-shoes, not banker-shoes, the Predators and Cameras could see his shoes were scuffed, old, much cheaper than the suit, and yesterday that guy Mott said he was so far out of his mind he'd have to drive, because it's too far to walk, no tomatoes in that word salad, but SurferGirl defended him, SurferGirl said he was her Stalin, her best bank robber.

SurferGirl liked him, SurferGirl, genius, god, Cleopatra of the underworld, and anyway what was he supposed to do, get a job, be a work-jerk, there hadn't been any jobs in years, they'd never give him one anyway, he'd never had a job, he was a pain-artist, anyway it was everyone else who was wrong, not him, all the millions waking up, eating breakfast, thinking wrong-thoughts all day, maybe he was crazy but at least he was sincere, he deserved something, toast, a beautiful couch, a lovely wife, feetprints, monkeybugs, a Snack Opera.

Two people in line in front of him now, he still had his Secret War against the Bankers, they robbed him so he robbed them right back, seemed fair, all he wanted was fairness, everybody likes fairness, because fairness is fair.

Nobody noticed him, the suit was working, one more guy in line, nobody poor had a bank account and the white guys all looked alike, another upper-middle in a suit, big yawn, nobody could tell the difference when he had his bankers-drag, not the Predators, Facial Imagers, Data Drillers, Flying Cameras, Satellites that Read License Plates from Outer Space, rocky road rage, it was the other dog that was anxious to go, not him.

Anyway it was good/fun to be crazy, because Life is Boring, waiting in line, waiting for this/that, stuck in line, stuck in time, stuck in line-time, a time-prisoner like an old metalhead or somebody who was famous in 1983.

First in line, he gets a sweet Asian teller, pretty, efficient-looking, he walks over and smiles and shows her the gun and gives her the note:

I'm sad. Put the money in the bag.
No Trackers and no alarms. Nope.

The teller gasps and stuffs money in the bag, staring at the gun, because that's what they always stare at, meanwhile he's telling himself what SurferGirl told him: A fighter needs three things: audacity, audacity, audacity, he takes the bag and walks out of the bank and disappears into downtown traffic, he'd get a car and hideout back at the shanty, another victory in his Secret War, audacity, audacity, Lord Algae, Patient of the Year 3 Years in a Row, green gyrosquirrels sleep furiously and nobody tries to stop them, there's nothing there now, but that's where something used to be.