Before the SUV Almost Ran Me Over

For Sheri

A child takes
a piano
lesson upstairs, strong
brew purchased below,
the teacher sings. I wish

she wouldn’t. Then it stops. Newspaper
pages rustle—an old
fashioned sound. All the text
messages I don’t hear
take me from this pivot

point. An elbow
aches, and still I will sling
a bag over the same
shoulder to risk
intersections to get to you.

But can I meet the streets
of Cincinnati
where traffic accidents
hit too close
to home? I only hope to recognize her

soul gently touching my arm
when I look both ways.

High Hat Wind

Moan or whistle, skyway
window panes are walls
of response to the lowest

air pressure to hit the state
in recorded history. Loss
of power isn’t the same

as how we become powerless
to stop weather patterns
of obsession from registering

overhead—constricting within.

A Seasonal Man

For Steve

A spring rain
essence hangs in the air
on a Saturday morning
in October, triggers memories

of any season
up for grabs. We hunt for rats
in the NYC subway,
on its streets, behind

its garbage bins
in alleys. Summer in the City
always makes a statement
to the nose. Bad

puns and monotony
breaking drinks to keep us
warm on a Minnesota winter
night. I came unprepared. You

had no idea what you were
getting yourself into—out of.
On the west bank
of the Saint Croix,

we read through
all I had written
come spring. It came
so violently, I almost faded

dead away
by my own hand. Was it yours
that crossed out

the almost

18 years later—the slow
desperation of a soul dying
to be free.

Road Restless

Between trips, she tires
of the asking trees.
Exhausted by the ones without
brilliantly hued questions, the ones
that taunt with a humming
constant in the wind—home is

not the answer
every time, everywhere.

Heirloom

An island won’t tell
its stories to just anyone.
She needs to woo its open ocean

side with a promise—
no messages in bottles, no

texting the mainland
after the fishermen bed
down the sun into night.

On this Day in 1995: A Prose Poem?

Warning: Sentimentality Ahead

In honor of the 15th anniversary of Trace’s official release today, I decided to listen to the entire album while walking along the West Bank of the Mississippi River. I walked from downtown Minneapolis to the river and along the pedestrian path—which hovers between the river and the Great River Road (Highway 61)—to the Broadway Bridge in the time it takes to listen to all the songs through “Too Early.” “Mystifies Me” played as I turned back and started heading south. I did make a brief detour on a trail that loops to the water’s edge for “Out of the Picture.” With the band members residing all along the Mississippi River at the time the album was recorded, from the Minneapolis area to the Saint Louis area to (temporarily) New Orleans, I have always associated the album with the river.

Trace may have been released 15 years ago today, but I’ll never forget hearing the songs for the first time on a leaked tape cassette that was circulating in early 1995 and the first time I saw the band play at the 7th Street Entry on a warm June night. I stood in the front row and have done my best to maintain that position ever since. When I listen to those songs, I feel as if they’ve been around my whole life. “Sounds like 1963” indeed. Isn’t that the definition of classic?

No collection of songs has had such a presence in my life. I believe that generations down the road, or up the river, will listen to Trace (on whatever contraption is prevalent at the time) and become just as enchanted with the songs’ beauty, sadness, grit, and wisdom. Trace is a best friend, a classic, a poem, a prayer. And “the rhythm of the river will remain.”

Euphony

Suddenly evening crowds
the street—a quickened
descent—September
acceleration
into darkness cooling
and smiling upward—there
moon, there moon.

Transfusion

I am that body. Sedated
to prevent convulsion
into permanent stillness. I am

all bodies in motion
and at unrest. I am
this living

moment

where all fury and blame
are rubbed out. Fragile shell—
I am one too.

@ the Saint James Hotel

It could be tattoos and piercings offered
in the old rail shed behind a grain
elevator that still groans and gives

forth. Could be barges propelled up river
to unwrap another image thrown
back in time. Or a black and burnished

brass Roman Candlestick
telephone and century turning pipe
organ in history’s hotel

parlor. If only my mother were here—
she would know what to do.

Red Wing

To be plum
with the river, or a bluff

quarried but still projecting
as a barn for the gods,

is
to be at all

bliss on a high bridge
or barge passing beneath.