Revolution on Canvas, Volume 2 Page 8

  And

  on Monday—Feb 9 my younger brother got a thin yellow rope and hung himself

  in the garage

  so—

  while we all got

  our stories to

  tell

  his are up

  for grabs—or

  misinterpretation

  and I’m sure

  at some point

  I’ll fuck one up

  and he won’t be there

  to correct—

  ME

  Murder, Prostitution and Other Forms of Democracy and the Institution of Marriage

  He had married—his secret mother

  wanting—to be a whore

  they fucked—like they were trying

  to extract the ingredients of

  the horizon, from

  each other—and she could

  swallow—the ocean

  at the mouth—as he tried to push

  the tides—for her—and

  in the time it takes

  for an ocean liner

  to sink—they had only reached

  a fetal shore puberty—still

  madly in love

  years later—he would quietly

  count her—freckles when she slept

  so

  when people ask

  him

  why don’t you write

  about

  politics—or

  the fucking

  war

  He could reply

  I do—

  you just ain’t hearing

  it

  Right

  BRANDON WRONSKI

  Dead Letter Diaries

  Progress in Part

  Morning sunlight always does find her way;

  Whether sleep does find or sleep escape

  ’Twill find a way to make me weak today;

  If knowledge is key why reiterate?

  In this new light I think I’ll find a cure

  For those who love and live to be deceived,

  For times when abolition was sure

  That all its strife could be for once relieved,

  That its worries could be sent out to sea;

  Progress in part becomes winning the heart;

  Is everyone I know the same indeed?

  In no way did I believe in this remark;

  Flowers did bloom, untouched by man for whom

  Did first attempt to inhabit the moon?

  Sand in Context

  Take this sand out of context. Let’s use it to make substances transparent to the eyes. Make it look like fields after rain. Let this “glass” reflect the beauty of the flowers on the right. And let it soak up every ounce of color that disrupts it on the left. Let our invention become obsolete and cut a trail to new technology. We want green fields, so when it’s snowing vibrant white let’s replace it with the color on the right. As sand becomes glass, the glass becomes an information center on a disk. Which in turn becomes our trust or should we hold it in our hands. One time I’d like to see this for what it is. Should we hold on to technology that will slip away like the sand?

  Kodiak

  Kodiak aside to the sea a wife skinks

  Edit one skid

  Lies, power the airflows immense; oak trees wiped now

  Sell Vesuvius

  SAD

  Solid

  Each day

  Foil

  Lording kerns

  Joker this Pompeii

  Lockers

  Joker this tsunami 9.0

  Gilding

  Boulder 7, 4

  Lore the rest through your mountain fall

  Kite

  Just every that kiss lady low

  Hushed sea and the sky splits

  Shays soils sized

  Due dim doodled decked

  Key

  D duh

  She put the Kodak aside to see me in modern light because I can’t escape the rain

  And I said to her what do you mean? What skies will fall and seas will spit out steam?

  ADAM PANIC

  Adam Panic

  Hello me.

  As the prelude to a show

  (Proving that heirs leave space)

  You’ll find yourself in a bond between what is right and what you’ve gone to.

  I’ll hurry to place the papers in a fireproof safe,

  only to find it drenched with gas and marked with postage to be sent into space.

  I turned my head to the left.

  Hello me.

  I put a promise charm on the dresser and backed away after that.

  The note said that I’m leaving and I’m going to the front door.

  You can meet me there if you want.

  I turned my head to the left again.

  Hello me.

  Now this is the plan:

  I’m getting out of this sand that’s lengthening my reach for air.

  The sound of the grains crushing themselves is deafening.

  Each one is saying hello to me.

  They’re punching holes in my ears.

  They’re making me sweat.

  So I’ll give up my space to you,

  but please leave attempts for me.

  JOHN NOLAN

  Straylight Run

  I Might Be Wrong

  It’s nine o’clock in the morning at Los Angeles International Airport, but to me it feels like seven o’clock last night. Or it might be six o’clock later this evening. Or eight o’clock tomorrow night. For the past two weeks I’ve been on the opposite side of the world, where the time is roughly thirteen hours different from the time it is in the part of the world where I live. I’ve been on a plane for the past fourteen hours and now I’ve got a two-hour layover in Los Angeles, where the time is three hours earlier than it is in my home in New York. So I’m pretty unsure of time at the moment.

  My friend Shaun and I are searching for some sort of restaurant/bar to sit down in and wait out our last hours before the final flight home. We spot a little place right near our gate and walk in to sit down. I think that I might be hungry but I don’t really know. My body is as unsure of the time as my mind. Shaun steps up to the bar to order some food and a drink while I consider my options. I decide to just have a drink for the time being. I walk up to the bar to order the drink that I instinctively order when flying, or when it’s nine in the morning but it feels like four in the afternoon three days from now—a Bloody Mary. I pull up a stool and place my order. While the bartender gets to work I take a look around the room. It’s a small place and it’s early, but there are quite a few people sitting at the bar along with me.

  At a table directly behind me is a soldier dressed in his desert camouflage, sitting quietly. A middle-aged man and woman are seated next to me. They have apparently formed a temporary bond over the fact that they are both traveling and are both employed by a business. The man looks to me like he might be named Edgar. The woman looks like a Colleen. I have no idea what their names actually are, but for the purposes of this story these are the names I will give them. The bartender hands me my drink and I sip it while idly eavesdropping on Edgar and Colleen’s continuing discussion on the rigors of business travel. I look up at the television with little expectation, but to my surprise I see that CNN is reporting breaking news. The screen flashes and the expensive-looking graphics explode into place while words appear announcing the story. The thick haze that time difference and travel have clouded my brain with seem to clear instantly. Twenty-four Iraqi civilians have allegedly been murdered by American Marines in Haditha, Iraq.

  Before even one word of the story is reported, Edgar says, “I don’t believe that for a second. Those people were born hating us!”

  It seems they’ve found something else they have in common because Colleen immediately exclaims, “Don’t even get me started! I know exactly what you mean! I have a friend who has a kid over there right now!”

  As they launch into a discussion about the intense and bizarre hat
e that Iraqis have for America, CNN cuts to an interview with a twelve-year-old Iraqi girl who is saying that she watched American soldiers come into her house and shoot her entire family. She says that she lived through the shooting by lying on the floor and pretending to be dead. I try to keep in mind that all of this is just alleged. All the facts aren’t out yet, no one knows the whole story. But this is truly horrifying and I feel there is little to no likelihood that the girl is fabricating all of this. The report goes on to say that a few months ago the twenty-four dead were reported to have been killed by an IED (improvised explosive device). After some time passed, an article in Time magazine was released that told another story. The article contained many eyewitness accounts from Iraqis in Haditha who said they saw Marines invading homes and killing families after a roadside bomb killed a member of their platoon. The Time article prompted further investigation by the military. The investigators have concluded there was a cover-up but won’t say if it is limited to the handful of Marines who did the killing. The investigation is ongoing and it could be weeks or months before any charges are brought.

  Edgar and Colleen continue their conversation completely unaffected. According to what I overhear, the war is going along quite nicely, but the liberal media and the ungrateful, hateful Iraqis are trying to paint another picture. The soldier behind me, who I would imagine has been to Iraq, and is within earshot of the conversation, continues to sit quietly. Either he’s not paying attention, or he’s just listening and saying nothing. I can’t help but wonder what he is thinking about all of this.

  As I continue listening to the discussion beside me, and begin to really consider the statement that Edgar made the instant the story broke, I get more and more angry. He doesn’t believe it for a second!!!?? Those people were born hating us!!??? Those people!!?? He immediately dismissed the allegations without even listening to one shred of evidence! Not only that, he dismissed it all based on the asinine notion that Iraqis are born hating us! I clench my teeth and begin to do what I always do when I’m incredibly angry. I imagine a scenario in which I express myself clearly and precisely to the object of my anger, with more conviction and articulation than I could possibly possess. I lay out all the facts plain and simple, and when I’m through, that person knows that they are completely and utterly wrong, and so does everyone around them. In reality I just sit there thinking about it all and saying nothing. I’m all too aware of the idiocy of this fantasy to ever try to make it a reality. I pick up the remainder of my Bloody Mary and join my friend Shaun at the table he’s found.

  All through the next few hours at the airport and the flight home I can’t help thinking about the Haditha story and the things Edgar said. The idea of these soldiers from our country killing these families in cold blood makes me feel so much sadness, anger, and confusion. The thought of this man being able to brush all of it aside almost makes me feel worse. I dwell on it all for quite a while, just going in circles, until slowly my emotional response gives way to a more contemplative one. I begin to think about the way that Colleen immediately agreed with what Edgar said. I think about all of the people who would agree with him. There are so many people in our country who truly believe that people in Iraq hate us for no good reason and that the media is full of leftist fanatics bent on destroying our heroic president. I contemplate why people might think that things are so simple, as completely black and white as all that. It dawns on me that so many of them are probably doing exactly what Edgar did. They are immediately dismissing, or intentionally avoiding, every bit of information that doesn’t coincide with their point of view.

  Just as I start to become completely enraged at the willful and proud ignorance of conservative Americans everywhere, I have a realization. This is not something that only pro-war Republicans are guilty of. Anti-war liberals ignore and avoid information that contradicts their beliefs just as much. There are countless people on the left who think in the same simplistic, black-and-white ways, but believe the exact opposite of the people on the right. In fact, it begins to seem to me that anyone who is completely devoted to any cause or ideology is guilty of purposely ignoring evidence that is contrary to their beliefs. I suppose it’s not really a new or startling revelation, but many times the realizations we have are not groundbreaking, they are just things that we’ve always known but never fully comprehended.

  I start to think about all the different groups of people all over the world that are convinced that what they believe is absolute and nothing that anyone can say or do will change that. So many people with so many different, deeply held beliefs, and all of them convinced that they are the only ones who know the right answers. How many people are sustaining this faith through willful ignorance? Truthfully, I don’t think it’s ever been easier to do than it is today. There is a television station, radio station, Web site, and countless books catering to just about any ideology that anyone wants to embrace. We can immerse ourselves in a seemingly endless variety of information that will never contradict anything we have decided is true.

  I can’t help thinking about all of the various conflicts around the world that could be resolved if everyone were more open to the idea that they might be wrong. It all seems so simplistic and naive that I almost feel silly for thinking it. There must be something that I’m not taking into account. I consider that maybe if no one believed that they were completely right that no one would believe in anything at all and we’d all be lost and hopeless. But I immediately reconsider this. Being open to the fact that you might be wrong is not the same as not believing in anything. We can believe what we do because we’ve done our best to look at all the facts, considered things from all possible angles and then drawn our own conclusions. We can believe in these conclusions but still be aware that something or somebody might be able to show us another side of things that we hadn’t previously seen. It seems to all be pretty reasonable to me. I guess the naive part is thinking that everyone could somehow be capable of, or willing to think like this.

  There’s an old saying that goes, “There are three sides to every story—your side, my side, and the right side.” It’s kind of a simple, humorous statement, but in most cases it’s true. As I really start to think about that idea, I understand that it even applies to the alleged events in Haditha. Even if the initial reports are correct and it turns out that these Marines are guilty of murder, there will be another side of the story that I would have never considered in my initial reaction. There is the story of confused kids who ware taught to kill and then thrown into the middle of life-and-death situations and expected to make the right decisions every day. The men in charge of them equally confused on how to lay out clear guidelines for the war being fought. It’s a complicated story that will in no way exonerate these soldiers, but it is nonetheless extremely important that I not ignore it. It dawns on me that it’s in no way any less important than it was for Edgar not to ignore the story of the Iraqi people that morning. In my own way I was doing the same thing that he did. Even though I didn’t ignore the story, I still made up my mind without hearing all of it. I don’t want to make my conclusions based on my emotional responses, and I don’t want to be like so many people in the world who find the political party, news show, or religion that most closely mirrors their own beliefs and then take everything they say as fact. I want to do my best to find out what is truly right, and I think that the only way to do that is to always keep in mind that I might be wrong.

  SHAWN HARRIS

  The Matches

  My Doe

  by first snow

  by first snow my Doe

  ought to have a ring

  Lord I—I been saving

  but Hope is on a rope

  Hope’s on a frayed rope

  and I can count her ribs

  from our kitchenette window

  I’m scared and unprepared

  she’s startin to show

  when we found Hope

  when we brought home Hope

  last of
the litter down the way

  the cataract in her right eye cloudy grey

  we never said

  never said, but both knew

  adopting her meant more

  than any ceremony her mama’s waiting for

  I’m scared and unprepared

  she’s startin to show

  my Doe’s a little bit psycho

  but she look all right with the lights low

  my Doe wear her head inside out

  my Doe know that I don’t mind though

  my Doe

  my Dear

  my female

  she sell

  retail

  by the

  C

  V

  S

  pharmacy store.

  Shawn Harris

  RYAN TRASTER

  Small Towns Burn a Little Slower

  Death Rattle

  I was sent to this desert with no bread or water, just a guitar in hand. The sun beaming down on my skin as I crawled deeper into the sand. I sang “all my life I’ve needed someone else, now I’m just happy with myself. I won’t try to take back anything I’ve done, because I was just having fun.”

  So I sit in this state with a smile on my face, as the vultures circle my head. Think of the times that others made me cry and I laugh, thinking, all this time it didn’t matter in the end, the people I’ve let down or couldn’t seem to impress. Wasting my life trying to live for someone else. When all that mattered was myself.

  JON TUMMILLO

  Folly

  This Is Exactly What It Doesn’t Feel Like to Be in Space

  Door.

  Awake.

  The first and second word.

  Addressing stranglers.

  A Film adjacent the lips.

  Adhesive warnings.

  Dawn is quite the confident prick.

  Human lasagna.

  Furiously unhinge the jaw.

  Porch swing in a thunderstorm.

  In present tense.

  Intense Presence.

  Neglect as a cancer.

  Flying coach.

  Instruct the coasts to share the cost.