The Hills Wash Away, The Hills Are Embered

The Hills Wash Away, The Hills Are Embered

All of us lucky sons of bitches
live on the hill tops
high over the fatal diseased
stew that the village has become,

And one of these days
it will stop raining,
the water will stop rising
and we'll be able to use
the roads down the hills again,

Followed with flames
racing up the sides of canyons
to embrace terraces and pools
after the fence is consumed,
fire balls and their embers carrying themselves
over satellite dishes and American flags,

But in the mean time
we will gather our pots and pans
and not mourn over our terraces
that have collapsed with the onslaught
of water and wind
that howls and whistles through
loose joints in the wood