The hills are facts. Assembling.
Toyotas are crawling, antlike,
all over their hairy backsides.
The ants vote with their pocket-
books. Lacking pocketbooks,
they are disenfranchised. So,
they vote with their feet.
Our feet head for the hills. The hills
are looking very factual tonight.
The mist descends, monsterlike,
to knock at the doors of the houses
pouring smoke out their several
chimneys. The smoke, toyotalike,
crashes into the mist. The houses
knock at their own doors. For every
heartache there is an equal and
opposite satisfaction. That’s why Jesus
invented country-western radio. To say
I’m so lonesome I could cry or If
you’re gonna cheat on me, don’t
cheat in our hometown, when we can’t.
When we’re traveling, particlelike
through distant hills. Of course, I’m
speaking here of the age of hills.