The People Under The Hill

Every step a heavy clop, every shape hidden in the grass bleached white by the sun seems to be a bone, a piece of hide, something that reminds one of violence and death. Right on top there is polished glass and coffee on the house during the monthly “meet your mayor “ gathering.
I’m here in the middle of it. Is it my imagination or are they looking at me? Wondering who I am.
Oh, maybe I’m a journalistic reporter writing for the Lake Daily. Or maybe I’m just a hanged woman, stopped by in search of an electrical outlet so that I can paint on the cave walls.

Birds flew, two jack rabbits skipped, and two butterflies whirly twirled in the hills of Franklin of my mind. Of my mind.
These are the real hills of Franklin and they are of my mind. Does it matter if it is a nightmare as long as I’m lucid and cope the best way I can with each situation as it arises?
Lemony scone reminds me of Opa’s raisin cakes. Oh, so delicious! And they wear ties in this heat, being all so official. There is a man in the corner being massaged and their voices go on and on, the music that is noise when you try to shut it out.

I keep wanting to sing, to shout out and scream. With joy actually, or to remind myself that on this ride, I am alive. I am not a part of it today, I’m just passing through. Passing through.
In borrowed shorts and rhinestone wife beater. They are probably wondering where I went. I maybe should have said something, but it makes me feel better to do without asking for permission. Easier to ask forgiveness than permission, it's true.

The princess? She’s gone too.
Oh they fired her? She was pregnant. Yeah. Silence.
The City Of Lake Elsinore. Does this mean that they understand each other? That they don’t?
The scone is really quite delicious, has big crystals of sugar on top and plump raisins inside. I even see a gold name tag.
Is this everyday in here? I’m told it’s like this once a month, but will it be that different tomorrow? Will the same people be here buying coffee?

How strange, the crowd cleared from around the free coffee and I rise to liberate some myself. I return and there is a small dirty plastic tea cup in my seat. Right where I was sitting. Just big enough for a Barbie or a pixie.
What does this mean? There are signs everywhere. Pink tea cup means go home. Get out of here before the mayor arrives and I can’t squeeze out the door. Or maybe it means drink deeply.
Or perhaps because I was thinking of taking this coffee to my mother, maybe it means, nice idea, here have a cup on the people from under the hill.
But in this case the people under the hill are dead whores. Is that so different from will o the wisps? Perhaps not. In any case how nice of them. Thank you!

They are now serving gelato! All summer long! Ants crawling out of the big cracks in the earth. Giant black ants the size of my pinky finger nail.
They have built little walls of stone around them and one ant leaps onto my camera tether and swings for a moment before leaping off. Are these the ants I played with as a child under the mountain? They were this big , but they were red like candy.
Like plump raisins in a scone.