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.

Sculpture Garden

I see a rainbow reflection on the cherry
spoon of its own making—fountain’s
mist. Sun’s been shining
all day. And I know
I can break
my own heart.

epicurns.com

A first floor cremation
urn gallery comes to me

in a dream
where I’m riding east—

a river crosser, muse
lover—lusting for a guardian

angel who can’t be
touched. Live human flesh

before me, he must remain
straight ahead, slightly

elevated—never false.

Esther to Lester

She stands outside the mouth
in fear—it tastes like dirt—
a gummy red, soulful clay soil.
She passes through

this entrance daily
to travel into that deep, pitch,
sometimes dank, place
inside herself

where she plucks poems
from vines. Too dangerous now,
this passage might cave
into her, she might crumble

into a thousand tiny pieces
of a broken heart.

Or Wave

She believes the dirt
can talk, trees and wind join in—this nonverbal

world says more to her
than the one she keeps trying to define

and confine herself to. Poetry
of numbers in vibration is

music. She sees the face
of a god over Big Sur cliffs—sand mixed in.

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.”

Shape Shift

Vital signs appear in all directions—here
the universal symbol
for no longer choking. The color blue

has turned green
as mature redwood leaves
modest in their fog shroud.

She remembers how
to read them only when she steals
a moment from leaf litter beds

to refocus her mind
on what her eyes have been fixing
all along—this figure eight.

Ripplewood in the Redwoods

Across Highway One
from where I slept, from where a hummingbird swept
into the brush to alert me to another

day, I wait.

Fog never fully rolls back to reveal
those mountaintops but allows the sun to be exposed
and exposing

as hours progress. Seams between
sky, ocean, cliff
recede. I’m not waiting—I’m opening receptacles

to turn-outs and drop-offs and rock-ons.

To the Fair

A tree drops a limb for me
and misses. The gift 

of life detaching
to become a random crack 

against concrete.
On my walk on, 

I won’t take it so hard.