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 Jeffrey Grunthaner

Star Wars

In those days, keyboard-patterned red shoes
Were worn out of respect for a bygone
Prerogative. The people were forced
To live on grubs from their own bodies,
As these were the only things that didn't reject
The presence of their stomach, hands, lips, eyes.
We kept compulsively opening the flowers,
Like the pimples we had left with the day before,
Day 2 in the dermatologist's office. We felt like fish
Whose memory extended more than five seconds
Into the past, the dust spinning whorls around us
In siroccos dating from 1927 or 1928. The ciphers
Coursed over "les vagues" in a triangle
With no thinking to it. And then there was The Room
Where courageously you woke up
To a dinner's worth of frustrated compliments.

What's a Computer?

The mist looked in at us from the summer cabin,
But was it really summer? A wide open field
Filled with tiny white wildflowers in endless repetition.
Panic was the mother of all things,
Expressionless and without choice. A cannibal truck-driver
With the ordinary grace of a man, or any ordinary man,
In a world that was a garden. I didn't want to be a victim,
Nor corrupted by Mr. Sociology,
The man whose head expanded, & who gently took in
The stars overhead, like tiny mouse hands with broken knuckles.
"Have you gone away from music completely?" he asks.

drugstore-consciousness: an imitation of Tristan Tzara's droguerie-conscience

from the lamp of a lily will emerge a prince so great
that the waterjets will ennoble the factories
and a leech self-mutating into a tree of disease
i'm looking for the root my lord unmoving lord unmoving
why then yes you will learn come in spirals toward the useless tear

humid parrot
cactus of lignite inflate between the horns of the black cow
the parrot digs hollows in the tower the saintly mannequin

in the heart there's a child—a lamp
the doctor says he won't last the night

then he departs in short angular lines silence formation silently

when the hunted wolf rests on the linen
the elected hunts his enclosures
showing the flora exit of the death that will be the cause
and the cardinal of france will appear the three lilies fulgurous clearness electric virtue
long dry redness combing fish and letters in disguise

the giant the leprous of the landscape
stops between two cities
he has some streams rhythm and the turtles in the hills heavily amass
he spits some kneaded sand his woolen lungs lightening
the soul and the nightingale whirl in his laughter—sunflower
he wants to pick the rainbow my
heart is a paper star

in missouri in brazil in the west indies if you think if you're happy reader
you become for a moment clear
your brain a clear sponge and in this clarity there will be another clarity
further ahead
further when a new animal will blue in this clarity

Jeffrey Grunthaner currently resides in Bushwick, Brooklyn. He's had work published in a variety of print and online publications, and also gigs around in musical projects, playing a soi-disant deconstructed guitar after the manner of Rudolph Grey and Arto Lindsay. He's currently pursuing an MFA in poetry at Brooklyn College.