I can imagine Matteo Pericoli out there
beneath the Brooklyn Bridge counting
trusses and cables and stays. I can
see the world go blue against white
detailing and tiny capital
letters that march arrogantly into
the empty.
Never could keep them
so straight and clean and strong.
My architecture doesn’t lay out
pretty. Still, if I were a character
in a novel, this is
where it would really begin.
To shout “my socks
are wet” inside a crowded church
before it all begins
is to believe
in the beauty of echoes
as they become prayer.
Shellac the night
to morning, morning to
afternoon. A mail box
and a lamp post
uprooted and toppled
onto the only path left. Action lies
beneath frozen rain sheets. What begins
may endure longer than anyone
might imagine. And then there’s the full moon.
Madness of the mud
but she doesn’t
sculpt. Passion for digging
into soil rich
in nutrients
for thought, but
she doesn’t garden.
One more contradiction—
and her obsession will be complete.
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.
No mapping
exercise, no
diapason, geometric
shape speaking to me
while I sleep
will bring him back. No
longer in medias res, he
took the wrong detour
and never recovered
his footing.
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.”
My own private alley
is not for parking
ideas unless they’re going
in reverse. New words
to my ears tumble
from your mouth
to tempt me to pretend
to fall from an open window.
You who won’t trespass
against me—will you
catch me on the way
down?
Will the ivy on brick
tie us together
for a moment? I close
all blinds on the east side.
Take off
the wheels,
hang the amputated
boards on a café wall.
If you don’t want
opinions, don’t go
on display. Rent the piano
in the public library
for an hour so you can play
inside a sealed chamber. Or,
collect yourself
into a scream
that will skate outside.
Incidental instrumentation
is a snare drum dance
on a low stage. The frequency gentle
and occasional, the result
a steady and uninhibited linger. Blueprints
to buildings sometimes reveal their windows
upside down, sometimes superimposed
lines pull a stillness over the implied glass.
Merce Cunningham paused on film
in three movements, the music plays
without instrumentation—Cage composed
and decomposing. The lyricism of the moment
collides with an unrecoverable
past. Staggered evidence of feet once buried
in sand, and I’m six and not concerned
with the inevitability
of high tide.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 