I realized today that I have never seen
the hill I see when I hear “hill,” and
because so, I have trouble believing
in the existence of any such natural
structure, though I have seen them before,
or so I am told.

I know now what Nietzsche meant.

My hill wobbles between two and three
dimensions, only showing
contours with human interaction, which
has lately proven stressful to my weary
imagination.

It has two slopes, perfect mirrors of each
other, juxtaposing one another against
the cloudless gray canvas. The little black
traveler, stained with charcoal, appears
and my ideals of computer design must
compete with the archaic flatness of the
“original” in order to provide as much
reality as possible.

Our solemn traveler reaches the summit
and the gray sky oscillates from left to
right until it is satisfied with its view
of the familiar stranger.

He lays like an angel over the inexplicably
trimmed lawn that covers the hill’s scalp,
face wrought with the blank gaze of mental
escape, most likely climbing the hills associated
with his very own metaphors.

He raises his finger deficient palms up to
the Heavens, begging for the weight of
sincerity to be lifted so that he could slide
like a slick penguin to the bottom of the
hill, where he can wallow in insincere interests
until the Jews decide to convert.

My hill dances with Nietzsche’s metaphors
along the blank backdrop of the dank gray
sky as our hopeful little traveler
melts into the waxy yellow-green earth
to be recycled in the dirt and stored, for
when the need for another ascent arises.

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