Sunday, September 10, 2006

Driving an Automobile Through Rainfall

toward a Wisconsin destination,
an artist vacation,
three grown men with Sparklehorse as a soundtrack
merge like a wax ghost union.
Armed with a three day weekend,
three heads swimming the creative ocean,
three hearts drawn into three directions,
makes perfect sense.
The weather, the music, and the common bond,
trinity at the intersection,
a crossroad on divinities roadmap.
Art is sure to be made there.

Apologies from the Music Critic

Dear sweet prefabricated Gnome,

This is my humble attempt to beg your forgiveness, to back-pedal, to eat my words.
The very last time that I had communications with you I believe that I may have been misunderstood. My skill at speaking Gnome is faint and my talent for a written, literate exchange is chewy at best. So if I may disinfect, so to speak, any of the polluted meanings in my last letter please accept this as my second chance.

When I said your singing voice is in the class of "belching up acid, bitter black coffee, verging on vomit tonality" what I meant was you sing like an angel of the Indy scene.

Also, addressing the second bone of contention, your home recorded CD 'Wainscoting the Senate Regimen”, when I said that it was "the mucus evidence of the mass populace acceptance squirting from B.Corgan's expanding ego nozzle", I meant that in the best possible way.

And lastly, I was unaware of how prominent the dollar amount that is being spent by the likes of your "ethnic background" in today's "alternative" music industry. Please, if you could call off the minions from sending hate mail to the zine, I may possibly get my job back. Really can you blame me? Who knew Gnomes really exist?

Thomas B.
(A former reviewer with
High & Mighty Music Review)

Monday, September 04, 2006

My essence moves in a constant flow
Like a pleasant secret
My heart has the similar meanings
As the wisdoms in occult books
Who I am can be expressed in a kiss
Who I am can be held like a universe
With each passing day
Discovery grows deeper
My soul is a wildflower garden
My awareness stands at attention
Oh how difficult it is to capture
A life so fine with only a half of heart
And a page full of broken sentences
It is like the dust of butterflies wings
Speechless like moonlight on snow