American dreams laid out to rows
of hardy bushes dividing green chemlawns;
all the familiar dogs have died.
the school bus came around this turn pregnant with
hopeful repeating future.
he became a schoolteacher,
she from the big red house went to Nashville,
friend in the brick ranch overdosed.
I remember the priest said "o death, where is your sting"
looking at his mother and nodding promise.
he asked us to remember the seal of baptism,
a flag draped over the casket.

around where I pulled into her driveway on a motorcycle,
the pine trees where I smoked my first cigarette.
he always sped up the old subaru around this turn.
I remember the family names,
Italian and Irish syllables to the beat of my sneakers.
I remember the insecure affection, the angry fathers,
the teenagers driving way too fast down the hill.
I remember soft breasts, pressing and unfaithful.
this is a graveyard of friendships.

I do not remember the sunshine ever being this bright!
or the air as thick and pulsing.
some gardens look exactly the same
as they did twenty years ago.
only I am different,
a transient voice resurrecting shadows.

An inspiring talk about creativity and the arts' relationship to public education, especially important for me as I seek to be a public school music teacher and a voice for change in music education.

Punch is one of the most important bluegrass-rooted albums since Bela Fleck's Drive, and a compelling example of the possibilities for a modern bluegrass ensemble. The Punch Brothers, all musicians who mastered their instruments within the bluegrass tradition, break new ground with this record. Led by Nickel Creek's mandolin player Chris Thile, the musicians execute the music with clarity, sensitivity, and life.

Some of the harmony employed on this record, to my knowledge, has never been used by an Americana-rooted band before. Many bluegrass traditionalists would consider the use of bitonality and dissonance outside of common tonal practice to be sacrilegious. Progressive bluegrass, such as Bela Fleck's Acoustic Planet and Tony Trischka, has strong jazz and world music influences. Punch embraces even more diverse musical influences; many of the frequent dissonances recall 20th century Russian composers like Shosticovich and Stravinsky. The band perfoms with changes in texture, move in and out of meter, and other techniques more common to modern classical music and film scoring.

Thile through-composed much of the record--the musicians' parts and don't repeat, such as in a common verse/chorus form. Many of the progressive aspects of the album result from this removal of the ensemble from strophic forms where everyone creates their own part out of a predictable bluegrass vocabulary. But this format does not come across as antithetical to bluegrass; there is a authentic sense that the music developed out of the bluegrass tradition. The band's ability to transition between a driving bluegrass sound and the more contemplative, orchestrated sections is remarkable. Even in the most esoteric sections of the pieces, a wailing pentatonic or a backbeat remains, keeping the listener grounded in the American vernacular.

The recording itself is transparent, without the heavy compression, booming bass, and flat levels found on many modern recordings. Nonesuch records specializes in classical music, so it is no surprise that the sound of the room and comes through clearly and the instrument mics bleed together.

I have listened to this album many times already, and I discover new things with each listen. For myself as a progressive traditional musician, this is an inspiring and thoroughly satisfying album.

I wish to reach in myself
and draw out only courage.
split my breastplate and fall
onto my open hand by the fingertips
push slowly between the lungs
to the fragile beating core.
the muggy organs flow between fingers and
I declare to the world my envy of it.
arm-deep in
perhaps, unwilling
to hook the slick charity,
tear through the membrane;
a white swamp in my guts
by the broken milk.

My original plan for my blog today was to post a picture of the tiny, white, cabbage-like flowers growing in my backyard, as a way to celebrate the oncoming warmth. But Rochester had other ideas, and poured her obstinately cold and wet snow over me and my budding friends. Just a day ago I was ready to put away my insulated boots. I was looking forward to letting go of my obsession with the thermostat and its hungry, bill-inflating master in the basement. My bicycle is restless!

last night I dreamt that I tortured a man
the anger grinding inside my bones
    like shattered iron into bedrock
I watched his will sputter and croak
clenched the comic burble
    whimpering through useless bloody lips
his dying hope my fuel of wrath

I dreampt fear, rendered into guilt
a sour fog in my lungs,
I could not fathom forgiveness.
he was bound to the chair and I to my rage,
and each blow fattened the impatient grudge.

I woke up yearning for shelter
a bed of warm earth
to break open underneath me,
a garden to sow tears.

If I say: I won't mention Him
or speak any longer in His name,
His message becomes a fire burning in my heart,
shut up in my bones.
I become tired of holding it in,
and I cannot prevail.