AFTER TEAR DOWN
slows to snow,
Snow smells like a little rock.
That is, his breathing as in this future
Snowmobiles electric carving knives.
I'm never warm in winter except in the
Water left in a glass on the night stand
A friend of mine—her spiritual practice—
The one thing worth not forgetting...
Snow's without tremolo.
open their voices,
Saints are sort of souped-up
Open my case, close it,
I'd like to tattoo us in invisible ink.
Snow blows against the motel,
The windows, uninvolved.
When I try to represent aspects of my former "career"—playing lead guitar in rock'n'roll bar bands—I'm presented with the difficulty of trying to articulate what was to me often a largely inarticulate (and also nonarticulating) way of life. "After Tear Down" is the result of one such attempt.