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 Short Stories by Terence Kuch

The Son

I looked out the kitchen window and thought I saw a stranger talking to Hans. It was my turn to babysit, though Hans was seven and 'baby' seemed not quite right. I went out to the porch. There was Hans, no other stranger in sight. Hans didn't laugh as much, after that, as he had before. His eyes seemed to focus somewhere behind my head when I spoke to him. When he was ten, he disappeared for two days and we were frantic. When he was fifteen, he said he was leaving home. We had to lock him up for a while, just to make a point. When he was eighteen he enlisted.

He comes back sometimes, his perfect black uniform, the double-S of his silver rank. He looks somewhere behind my head. Then he leaves again.

In the Dutiful Republic

In the dutiful republic we practice our smiles on our uncomplaining mirrors, hold our hands tight over our minds, say only the wrong right things. We concentrate, now, on being public beings, view that which infests us. Which simulation are we, today? Know not how to think,

(contrasting views of responsible spokespersons

              {who are however subject to the same illusions as those
              whose views do not contrast}

 are welcome)

but what. I pelvis to the Leader's television'd motions, pretend his tongue is moist and tight inside my ear. In the light we are dutiful; but at night we gather quietly in the home of one or another, cover windows with dark cloth, power-up the peering-machine, watch the Leader address his people. We rub in rhythm against the cold tube. We Tivo it over and over until we can time our brutal movements to the cadence of anointed speech with exquisite and exhausting precision.

There is no pounding at the door tonight because doors are now forbidden.

The mirrors—the mirrors have stopped reflecting us.

The Miracles Occur

"Hold your arms just so," he said. "Hands relaxed, fingers just a little apart. That's it, almost. Study the diagrams in the text; practice. Tomorrow's lesson is at 10. Are we bringing these miracles about, or is it all just coincidence? I have another student now; I can't take time to answer questions. No, you'll have to ask one of the wise men. I studied praxis, not theory. Opinions vary. There are different schools of thought. Myself, I think it's better not to ask: we wave our arms at the specified times; the miracles occur."

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"In the Dutiful Republic" was previously published in Polluto.