seductive decay

on summer days we
rode down the river in our ripe age,
careless if the rapids swept us
into their deadly dustpans,
the black hole of water,
the possibility aroused us,
perhaps because it seemed so far away.

and next to the river,
the appalachian townsfolk wandered the deep grass, they
gathered here to see the circling folding-tables,
buy the spread of goods,
the goods are masks.
the masks are of old folks’ faces,
cartoon-like, goofy comic characters in the funny pages.
masks of rubbered wrinkles, permanent,
bulging eyes, whiskered ears that never stop growing, with
an elastic band, you can become an elder.

old age attracts the crowds,
i have a fascination with it myself,
picturing all the stories that have
taken elders to the present,
it’s hard to fake being wise
when you’re forced to think for years.

Us girlies in our
cots, our beds,
rise at the sound of the
morning gunshot.

half past 8, the blinds
bolted shut like
some sort of gilded
prison

put on these socks
now, o
rubbered and friction
you don't want
hepatitis
now.

the bell jangles, no
that must be the phone and
8 foxes of the den
stand in a
line.

phone home will
you, doktor calls with
your paper cup. run like
you're freed and
ceased.

lukewarm water, O
now is she on Lithium?
nine hundred. the
morning gunshot

fires into the
ceiling speakers,
ringing like the
salvation army.

i thought of ants and how they colonize
and remembered the importance of my breath.
offset the thinning path
were pink and purple blossoms.
blue jays appeared to
keep the cardinals mindful
while the thaw of spring dispelled
the white curse of winter.
i watched their dance on broken twigs
and their consciousness budding forefront,
i thought about the importance to their dance
and forgot about my breath.

masses of aluminum color
regarded my need for space.
offset the flattened tar,
my chains churned in earnest
while synthetics fought the earth and
purple blossoms danced in their own way.
i am guilty of fighting in that war,
guerrilla tribes of rubbered feet,
propelled by accepting neglect.
these bodies are filled with meters
to measure varying complications,
none of which are relevant in our time.
but still i continued to fight and dance
and remember my need for breath
while the jays and cardinals
danced amongst the pink and purple blossoms

budding full of consciousness,
disregarding our foolish guerrilla fight.

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.

Footsteps through some Atlantic sea foam
Backstrokes beyond the loudness of your megaphone
Saline eyes, salty borrowed lens
So cloudless above, appearing to me as some other days cosmic swim
Today, now, I'm in my water, of our cosmic body.

"Oh
It's mine;
The water.
It's yours too; if you want it to be."

Searching barefoot in my forest of flaking birch
Soles in touch with my detritus, dying seasons Earth
My ears awaken my reptilian mind
So alive, in tune with Gaia's frequency
Today, now, I'm in my land, of our cosmic body.

"Oh
It's mine;
The forest.
It's yours too; if you want it to be."

Draped in cloth with rubbered feet
Footsteps disappear under the noisy city
Puddles of an unknown origin
Sit for days, evaporate from tall reflective glass
Today, now, I do not see my land within this cosmic body.

"Oh
This is yours;
This concrete jungle.
You can keep it. I'll never want this for my own."

There's a slab of cracked concrete
Outside a doughnut shop on the corner where I stand
Something green has emerged from the break
And I know that she will win.
Eventually, she will truly win.

"Oh
This is not yours; Nothing here is.
I allowed your life, and I provide for all;
But I will take your life when I'm ready.
Regardless how you choose to have it."

HP is flexible elastic rubbered band like
thought of it as home
static
I think I am getting old
the clouds match my mustache now
grey blue black strands
along the highway out to
the most popular band
we now got bell  bells
the whistle is a coming soon
and fever run one cause
it's gonna take
like fahrenheit 409
a degree or two hotter and
that is cool
I am not too old to adapt
I might be stiff
hey hey that's the way I have been