aesthetics
by the Pigeon River in Tennessee,
we pass the day wading in the water in blowup tubes
we are snakes who creep inside kayaks of foreigners
who paddle backwards, already wobbling back and forth, just
asking to be pushed.
in the night our bodies turn, our minds enter their fantastical realm
of distant narratives in our small wooden rooms
with creaky doors, walls with bold purple paint, once
with a putrid air of a dead rodent disguised as a bag of
rotten potatoes that summoned the love interest, aroused
pools of fast squealing maggots-- such
a delicious cleanup that was.
while we ride the river in our ripe age,
county people gather in our yard.
they came to view the spread, the looping tables
that hold masks, masks of old faces
like those elder cartoons in the funny pages,
their rubbered wrinkles and elastic earbands attract the crowds
who desire, who urge to look old
just to mask the appearance of being wise.