
This was painted by local artist Sean Poole during our March 20th show at Building Character. It captures a good musical buzz, in our opinion. You can check out more of Sean's artwork at his homepage or at his myspace.

But in the thick of the night I see a spotting of light like some African tree: They say there's a city--or so they've been told--I dream I could go, but the mountains are high and my wheelchair is old.
He kept a shoebox, silicon sleeping in ivory Pods. My granddad was like that, eyes on a day Pennsylvania forgot. Late in the evening, into the mist of a cold Autumn rain, down the cracking cul-de-sac off we would walk to the dead Interstate.
"Sammy, lift up your eyes," he'd say, "See that oasis of light down the way? They say there's a city--or so they've been told--I dream I could go, but the mountains are high and my ankles are old."
Today I dug down into the dirt and the snow of the median ground. A cross I laid at the head of his grave from some wasted memorial I found. Somebody, scrape these eyes out!; I've seen enough of their endless excuse. Their vision pretends and the grandsons of men die in love with the wrappers of truth!
But, just as I'm willing to wallow, my faculties finally stuck, there's a ripping of light and a hand like the wind, as it wrangles me into the truck.
And a voice from the seat says, softly, "Hey Sam, you got nothin' to fear. Every day, now, you've stared down the way, now I'm finally dragging you there."
"Just tell me one thing," I cry, pulling a tear from my penitent eye, "Soon as we get there, if we get there soon, will the light be alive and the family thrive with the city wall high and the turbine abloom?"