The two things I ever get are sad or angry, one or the
other each. The basted-roast that is this life is deadly
to me. Fires on the hilltop, animals running. Everything
I knew to be, was wrong. Here, in the midst now of rubble,
I stand like a bad tree, just waiting for some jerk's axe.
The river is running red with something - not as dark
as blood, though it smells the same. Some Italian voice
is coming down the ledge, up above, someone singing.
You know those Italian aria male voices - too jittery
and too high to be sound at all. I dislike all that, yet
here it comes right at me. God I hate opera.
It takes me a good three hours to walk this hill, all the
way to the top, and then back down. Up there, I look
around. Rows and miles of things - the snaking river,
and those funny islands with their flood-bent trees. No
one lives on any of them, though I wish I did. Like having
a driveway of water and nothing more - over which no
one could ever pass. Over which no one could ever pass.