Journal 1, Entry 5- Original Prompt: "Fuck This Hill"

I wrote this in my mind last night, when I walked to the apartments from the train station. It's tentivly titled "Fuck This Hill."

Fuck this hill.
And the train station next to it frescoed with "Fuck Offs" in the shape of broken
Fingers pointed toward the Papal castle turned prison turned rally point for German hikers.

Fuck this hill.
And all the dancing Italians in the square.
Their Ice Ice Baby faces and haircuts pogoing in the breeze as I carry my records to my apartment.

Fuck this hill.
And fuck the Etruscans who paved it and all the Romans who layered it like sandstone spongecake
and the layers of blood and bodily fluid from my broken blisters and sweating ass.

Fuck this hill.
I contemplate suicide by the lion that was once a fountain. Just like my Uncle did in that federal pin in Texas. Now he's being watched on 12 hour shifts while I breath heavily and lean against a shoe store.

Fuck this hill.
And the Spoletian arch. The reason Hannibal didn't sack this town was because he didn't want to cart
Those elephants up this hill and here they're complaints through peanuts.


Fuck this hill.
And the Orc woman at caffé Callicola. Sorry. I don't mean that. I apologize for breaking your pot
But there's no way it cost 28 euro unless your dead husband made it before he left for the front.

Fuck this hill.
And the American tourists drinking gin or Budweiser in the neon lit patio.
Will I be like you when I'm older? Will I trade my 'wild, fucking American' label for penny loafers and conversations about Madonna?

Fuck this hill.
I'm out of tune with the cars and can't count out time anymore.
I feel lucky that I'm not carting up a candle that sits giant and stout on my back.

Fuck this hill.
And the old man with the birds. They sing inside during the rain and feeds them seeds and berries
While his sons look angrily when I talk.

Fuck that hill.
I'm wet and cold and old and sad.
I sit down in a chair. I look out and down.