Revolution on Canvas, Volume 2 Read online

  the all knowing, all giving, all loving

  moneymaking death machine

  millions of people don’t know they are happy

  until their machine is on

  and they can see it grinding away

  what would our bones look like as dust?

  how would they smell?

  bye bye sweet highs and lows

  make way for the middle ground

  it promises you pleasant, so turn it on and walk away

  DUANE OKEN

  Socratic

  Honorable Discharge

  The rain dripping down the awnings down into my driveway is always a familiar noise. Even when I was little it annoyed me. How I could hear it hit the roof, then fall into all the holes that make up the driveway. That driveway creeps me out. I get awoken some nights from footsteps casually walking up it.

  They belong to a Vietnam vet. If only he served his country as much as he served his liver. He stumbled his way up that concrete almost every single night. I could smell his cheap cigars as he passed my window. With the night behind him, he would go to the basement that he called home and shut his eyes.

  His eyes have probably seen things that I can’t even imagine. Things that no one should. There was a night when he came home plastered and sat down in a chair to rub alcohol on his injured leg. After three puffs of his cigar he fell asleep. The cigar dropped and his body slowly caught fire along with the rest of the basement.

  I bet he thought he would die from an enemy bullet and not from being an alcoholic. I feel the war led him to drink as much as he did. So in a way it did kill him. I still get awoken from footsteps on the driveway at night. They’re not as loud and the cigar smell is not as strong but I still notice them. I guess some people can’t handle certain things. But then again I guess sometimes there are things that no one can handle.

  NICK THOMAS

  The Spill Canvas

  Galaxy Eater

  I’m a slave to these words—I am shackled to my verbs …

  From my nose to my shoes, I swallow galaxies for you—

  anything to lift that spirit of yours …

  My mouth dripping wet with sin down my chin—tell me where do I end and where do you begin?

  ERIC VICTORINO

  Strata

  Stray Bullet Effect

  Yes,

  it is a small, small world.

  and the damn thing

  is shrinking fast.

  they talk about butterflies

  fluttering their wings in remote tropical forests—

  but now it’s more like

  a punch-up drunk at a bar,

  a stray bullet fired while you wait for a bus

  swerving to avoid debris in the road,

  smashed by a semi-truck

  or spinning out of control across

  six lanes of speed—

  a dirty look can get you killed.

  simple misunderstandings

  can lead to murder,

  the way we are today.

  who knows?

  maybe there really is

  someone’s mother somewhere

  laying in a hospital bed

  with a bum back

  because you don’t watch your step

  on the sidewalk.

  these days I don’t think

  there are many coincidences.

  we’re too close together.

  BRIAN TASCH

  Boy Armageddon

  tonight

  it is you

  and me

  drowning

  in a sea

  of the cheapest wine

  that love can buy

  but relax

  because romance

  can be faked

  so easily

  when you’ve been drinking

  BOB NANNA

  The City on Film

  This is what I do and it’s awfully important. That will be the name of this particular interlude. It’s fitting, as it’s the very first thing I wrote into a notebook while on a plane somewhere above Colorado on January 30, 2006. There’s no rhyme or reason to the inclusion of that particular passage, just as there’s no rhyme or reason to the actual inception of it in the first place. I was probably upset. Worried about money. Worried about an upcoming eye doctor’s appointment (which by the way revealed non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, which by the way has been treated, and which by the way is gone forever from my life). Or maybe I was just bored and passing time during a long cross-country flight. I don’t recall 100% and, to be honest, that makes it especially interesting … to me. Words written and then forgotten. Forgotten words unearthed and taken way out of context. New context applied to old words. Fun for all.

  So what follows is a random collection of various entries into various notebooks and journals over a good ten or so years. Even I am perplexed by some of it. I vaguely remember an episode in Norway where a tour mate exclaimed, “This is how we do it in New York!” as he went to intervene in a increasingly violent domestic disturbance. I can recreate the scene in my head as the aggressor took a look at him and yelled in broken English, “Who da fuck are you?!” Or given the amount of time since the incident, perhaps I’m embellishing. Perhaps that was the point. Write down only vague details. Make the story work … later.

  I also sorta kinda remember starting work on a screenplay. The first scene took place at a train station. A romantic comedy? A black comedy? A political drama? A sci-fi musical? I don’t remember. It’s safe to say that eight years later, thank god, no film has been made. It was written and then forgotten about.

  This fucking bin is overflowing with junk such as this. Some of it’s okay and some of it eventually made its way into songs here and there. And then again, some of it (to quote Ricky Ger-vais) seems more likely to have been “written on a mental hospital wall in shit.” So here goes. I’ve included dates and places when available. Good luck. We’re all counting on you.

  01/30/06:

  This is what I do and it’s awfully important. I’m drinking a Bloody Mary. A five-dollar Bloody Mary. What I do. It’s so fucking important. When did I forget how to write? When did my flawless penmanship get so bad? When did the word penmanship get so hard to write? This is not important. Nothing in this book is important.

  I will be asleep tomorrow. All day. It’s inevitable. And it’s much better this way. Both of us, we’re passing time in our own ways. And here, up in this airplane, I am truly alone. Even more than I was in Bakersfield or those two nights when I slept in my car. I had a lifeline, truly. Someone could be there for me, if I needed.

  Seven hundred and twenty-nine dollars for a fucking rental car. Where does all this money go? What will happen tomorrow? Will I even be able to see? What kind of medicine are they going to throw my way? Has my ATM card been turned off? I wonder. Because it’s not working. Goodnight.

  Unknown, most likely 2005:

  Not bad in terms of terrible. Not quite what I was waiting for. A quick wit with lack of narrative wins second place sash with Early Wynn’s autograph. Alone in the union of lowa U. Two hours with (crossed out) then hysteria in the cafeteria. A curious red wonder in the area. Hurry lemme see. Let’s take a week off from everyone. (crossed out)

  2/15/03, Allentown, PA:

  Please allow me to be blunt yet painfully vague. That has never happened … but then again, maybe it has … in a painfully soft way. Remember Joseph? What exactly are you looking for here, son? How H must it be? I dunno. But here’s what I do know. I’ve seen it time and time again. Rock collectors come in pairs … but these aren’t rock collectors, dummy. Yes that’s right. I’m in the rumbleseat. What a party that could’ve been.

  11/30/01, Columbus, OH:

  You have pain somewhere always. Traffic through the city. Wrist feeling a lot better. Strap problem fixed. Laundry finally done tonight. Brown guitar fixed. Scrabble 11 to 2. Great show yesterday. Finally, doctor. Lots of email. You like them. The thing about drinking beer in a car.


  1/10/99, San Francisco, CA:

  She’s leaving. I’m sleeping in someone else’s dirty room. Dirty bed. San Francisco. After the show, we could’ve talked, could’ve something. But you were so embarrassingly drunk. I couldn’t even stand to be around you anymore. Kinda like you could hardly stand. I’m in Portland now and I used to like Storm & Stress.

  11 /20/98, Moss, Norway:

  Andre the Lion, the punkers hittin me with a bottle, “sex and violence,” man beating girlfriend, “This is how do it in New York,” kicking papers, big fat Indian meal, dog humps Pete, me and a plate, bergen discussions.

  10/26/98, Cleveland, OH:

  Scene #1: The Machine Gun

  BILLY: What are you carrying there?

  JOE: Oh in this (case)? Pool cues. Yeah … I’m heading into the Loop for the … Chapstick Billiards Championship down at 8-Ball.

  BILLY: Why in that case?

  JOE: Well, y’know, I like to go in there all incognito and surprise the competition into thinking I’m just the entertainment for the night …

  BILLY: (not buying it) Oh I see …

  JOE: No, actually, I’m lying … It’s a machine gun. Yeah. Ever see the movie El Mariachi?

  BILLY: No.

  JOE: Neither have I. Heard it’s good though.

  BILLY: I play guitar, too, you know. And I was a damn good billiards player in my day.

  JOE: Really? Do you have any experience with machine guns?

  BILLY: Hmm … does laser tag count?

  JOE: Absolutely.

  10/24/98, Rochester, NY:

  Make sure you tell her that you miss her.

  CRAIG OWENS

  Chiodos

  when i sleep, why do i have nightmares of children being hit by cars and serial killers wearing buffalo heads at my family reunions?

  is it the same reason that when i am alone in my apartment i set up the pillows on my bed to face the door, with my phone in my hand, 911 already dialed.

  when i look in the mirror, why do i spend hours staring at my eyes, and not looking into them. ranting the 7 syllables of my name over and over, sometimes for up to an hour or more.

  and why is it that i spend so much time trying to figure out why i should say things, when i should just be shouting them.

  JESSE KURVINK

  HelloGoodbye

  I love you and I miss you all the time

  all of those douglas firs,

  trains, transformers, bluebirds.

  anxious and my o.c.d.

  cereal, atomic energy

  and all the answers to everything;

  tesla coils, decaffeinated tea

  so much more put together than me.

  the interstates and, the difference in weather;

  i’m so glad you’re there to put all my pieces back together.

  KELCEY AYER

  Cavil at Rest

  The Heat Lamp

  I have always wanted

  to get back to the days

  where you’re home is to never be alone

  live with a generator feeling the buzz

  from the shocks you absorb when you’re getting a hug

  and you can light up when you wake

  before the showers that you take

  or warm up while you stay up late

  to prepare for the coming day

  where you don’t always get what you need

  and the will to keep up is the will to succeed

  and the measure of a man is weighted in the one he loves

  now I live a different way

  free from all her electricity

  I run off a self-sufficient battery

  that I keep from the promise of the way it would be

  if she came back to find the answer was me

  so I wait for her call

  thinking of all our faults

  and I finally let the light die out

  to fess up

  that what you want ain’t always what we need

  and maybe the collapse was in order to succeed

  and the measure of a woman is hidden in the way she loves

  by not loving anymore

  DAN LYMAN

  Halos

  Loud bang on the window. 8 or 9 Hispanic men. Landscapers again? This is getting old

  So hot. Good day to go to Jones lone … Everyone else has a real life. Sun.

  Evening news called us “The BB Gun Bandits” The Fuzz called us “lucky bastards”

  Free The Kid

  arm chair ¦ couch ¦ front seat ¦ floor ¦ Pacific Coast Highway ¦ bed’s a luxury

  12,000 feet. Unsuitable transportation. Exhilarating

  “… you don’t know where you’re going, but you know where you want to be.”

  Rug got pulled out. Coma months. Mad Dog 20/20 and fell to pieces

  Taken in by strangers … embraced changed endless gratitude Came together

  Not landing anytime soon: “Dear Lord, bring the angels onboard.”

  Penetrating eyes and I’ve got to know more. You will, too Can’t forget your friends … even if they forget you.

  Thank you, Rowland.

  KERRY TRUSEWICZ

  Royden

  Sometimes I Travel to You

  I

  downing out for the evening to

  desert fox, kind and fast jackrabbit,

  leveled bird and fortress

  then sleeping

  then waking and yawning to calm swells

  of our maiden pacific, fond gurgle and salty swing

  “i’m easy” yes you are

  as it’s easy to be all in the airs

  surrounding

  II

  my odd

  conversation is delivered

  to you via chirp

  and the wired space

  sets our untangled

  fingers humming back

  again

  III

  the stars at night

  are big and bright

  deep in the heart

  of Utah

  and the wood!

  IV

  do you ever feel like a good one?

  i once bent petals in half and

  stepped over flailing sparrow

  “i don’t know. do i?”

  CHRISTOPHER JAMES RUFF

  Kaddisfly

  Waves

  Apostolic

  Beliefs

  Conjure

  Divine

  Earthly

  Faith,

  Gainsaying

  Heavenly

  Intuition,

  Juxtaposing

  Kindred

  Love.

  Make

  New

  Opposition,

  Providing

  Quizzical

  Rationality,

  Stunning

  Treasure,

  Undying

  Virtuous

  Will,

  XYZ …

  No prophet has ever been accepted in his own village.

  An owl on a hill knows the moon

  and clear as a river,

  like flowers we bloom faster when we’re farther from the shade.

  Before you grow old don’t get snipped and sold.

  So what about animals and all the poor starving souls? Is it really worth our time?

  Well, here’s the thing with time …

  It’s our apartment, and rent is still due even when our skin skips town.

  Since we all are dealt zero sum hands we should have a little compassion,

  but people sure can be incompetent at understanding this concept.

  Be offended by the things we’ve done.

  Be offended by the shade of our thumbs.

  Be offended by just where we stand.

  One day I swear …

  No empire has ever been true to those that helped it begin.

  The Calm of Calamity

  In the eye of the sky the night bent down and sighed,

  and said with a smile, t
o the wind as it cried:

  “Your tears form the oceans and as with the tides,

  time forms the tears that you cast from your eyes,

  your salt forms the land and the earth becomes mortar,

  which dictates your path with direction and order,

  as rivers lay softly asleep in their beds,

  you cry with great plumage from violet to red,

  as you to your sons and as you to your daughters,

  I’ll keep gentle watch over earth and its waters,

  and as much as you control the ebb and the flow,

  as sure as the currents carve pathways below,

  as swift as the tides rotate from high to low,

  that’s as swift as you came and as quickly you’ll go.”

  Osmosis

  .i wrote the dry spell

  i built the fences

  built the walls

  chopped the wood

  and poured concrete

  i made the fortress around my hand

  with frozen ink that melts to rain

  which waters the root of thoughts and swells

  as vines of words begin to overtake

  my walls

  my fence

  my fortress

  my hand

  and with my watered pen

  .i wrote the dry spell

  .i wrote the dry spell

  .i wrote the dry spell

  Alone as a Tree?

  I gave a tree sight so it could see the earth its limbs and all its leaves

  The ground was there before its sight as were its roots before its life

  The tree gazed at the other trees with separate branches limbs and leaves

  And noticed different shades and widths that gave each unique tree its niche

  As the tree used its new pair of eyes it noticed unique shades and lives

  A thousand trunks born from the earth each tree alone in death and birth

  Blessed with sight the tree felt cursed and prayed to have its gift reversed

  Because it thought when one tree falls that other trees don’t care at all

  From this point the tree proclaimed that selfish trees should be ashamed

  Because they stand alone and still as brothers fall and sisters wilt They stand alone in sight and sound and never help the trees around

  They live to watch each other fall and never seem to care at all