To this day, I have never again stepped foot in Cleveland Ohio. Just a few years old when my family left, I hold only vague memories of a grey and industrial place. I once asked my Mother which hospital I was born in and she could not even remember its name. Both my Mother and Father were on their own journey seeking knowledge and running from life in a steel mill or cotton field in Birmingham Alabama. My Father was a songwriter, a hopeless romantic and a hustler; we spent many long hours on the road rolling into one growling town after the other. Our cargo, the dreams of grandeur my Father carried. In addition we had plenty of empty boxes to fill with the dreams that Dad was forced to abandon along the way. My Mother tagged along for a while, slightly addicted to the excitement of living like gypsies. Once she finally got her fill, the day came when she boarded a Greyhound bus in Louisiana, bound for Philadelphia. She left with two suitcases, one packed with my Fathers broken promises and the other half full of her own wilting dreams. I heard that she had managed to become a small time lounge singer and her desire for glamour and nightlife lead her to Las Vegas where we will eventually cross paths again.
- Biscuit Street Preacher
Come see some featured art for yourself at one of our three galleries.