The Gray Men and the Secrets of the Afterlife Late at night my glasses sit on the nightstand and see into the afterlife. The afterlife is a lyric about a far off place with beautiful trees. I enter the song as a tourist- my camera captures allusions. All my friends (in their flannel pajamas) have been there and talk about it in hushed tones as if it were a childhood secret or emerging weather. I finally made it there and each time I return a grey hair appears in my beard, on my head. On the last trip I fell over road apples and I thought, God doesn't love me- I imagined It was busy helping a man find faith again in an Oregon basement, find ecstasy in the fragments of a life where there are beautiful trees in an unforgiving country where grey men listen to blues in smoky, shade-filled rooms. A ring finger remembers different days. A watch stops to listen.
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