Unlikely 2.0

   [an error occurred while processing this directive]

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

Join our Facebook group!

Join our mailing list!

Print this article

by J. Slavens


It's no bent ego-twist to fact that I've been locked up in this cube way past unfair, not to mention untrialed. One of the tires on my truck had rocked loose and fell off. I might have swallowed maybe half a quart of whiskey. So what? I'm snake. I can handle my whiskey, ok? It'd been the loose tire not the inebriation that'd caused the damn accident. Takes a gene splicer to fact that? After I rolled the truck, I strolled over to the casa de la party. Some ditz had seen it her civic duty to call the Force and report my condition, which happened to be just fine. The truck had rolled three times; it was in horrible shape, a complete wreck, all bent up and twisted. I was fine apart from a cut on my nose and a bit of mild alcohol poisoning. Why not call the Force on the truck? Or call the Force on the son of a bitch at the service station who'd replaced the flat tire the day prior, replaced it with the tire that, whoops, fell off the truck and caused the wreck! So the Force arrived, knocked on the door of the casa, found me barfing in the toilet hole (alcohol poisoning, as mentioned), blood all over my face (the cut on my nose would not fucking coagulate), and then they asked me to say the alphabet backwards. I've never met anyone who could say the alphabet backwards. No, strike that. I did once meet a person who could say the alphabet backwards. This person also kept daily samples of his own shit in jars on a shelf in the back of his closet. For research purposes. No joke. So the Force stuffed me into the back of their Bronco-tank, and my Eves miraculously appeared beside the tank, looking in through the reinforced plasti-glass at all the blood and the chunks of barf. And I looked out at all their disappointment and helplessness. Then the Forcemen drove the tank Over the Hill, and then the tank dropped down into the matrix of holding cubes that made up the rehabilitation/detention facility, and then I was dragged out and shoved into one of the cubes, and I've been here ever since. Beloved 23!6oB. That's the designation of my cube. It's been seven months, more or less, since they jailed me. Sure, my truck had rolled three times, and sure, I'm way snake-lucky that I didn't break my neck and buy a casket, but it's not like I killed any babies or anything like that. I hadn't gone out that night with the intent of harming innocent people. When are they going to let me out? This cube-life isn't worth the sucking in of syntho-air, let me tell you. This like totally fucking sucks. Dreams of free-walking haunt me, and I chow on the nasty gruel they give me, and I don't complain. And I don't throw a tantrum. I get a feeling sometimes that they're going to let me rot in this cube. Like maybe they forgot I'm in here. That's how I feel right now. But I fact this feeling will pass. I am way snake, and I fact what's what. I'll figure a way out of 23!6oB someday. I'll see the sun again before I buy that casket.

Click to Continue...