She walked between the road and the railroad tracks
And on the other side the swooping powerlines
And beneath them the telephone line
Echoing the swoop
The conduit of power above
The conduit of signal below
And with each stride she brushed the fingers
Of her right hand against the folds
Of her skirt the pleats the gathers the folds
Telling herself a story I think I thought
But come to think of it I think
The utterance was my mother’s
In the driver seat and I at her right hand
Feeling the rise and fall of the powerlines
She might have meant what a charming scene
But I understood her to have indicated
A sign of feeblemindedness
Of self-absorption at best
For I knew my own thoughts
To wander wayward
And worthy of reprehension
But what else are you supposed to do
While walking between road and railroad tracks
And if it was a story
It must have been told in song
And not a soul to tell of what she sang
The rhythm of the brushing
Matching the rhythm of the stride
Rhythm and repetition
Rhythm and repetition
And nothing can be wrong with that
And wickedness in song does not come naturally
So is The Triumph of the Will a wicked movie
Some might praise its production design
Geometry or whatever
And the work can’t help
The use to which it’s put
Which is to delight and instruct
But the content of the instruction
Is so atrocious that it yields little delight
And so it is when you give the people what they want
The people that matter that is
The ones with power and money
To see a maiden imperiled on a mountainside
Or on the Empire State Building
Menaced by giant puppet ape hand
Or the intromission of the penis
Consent or its lack be damned
Better to sing to yourself
While walking between road and railroad tracks
And the best picture makes you say
What the fuck is going on
And if you’re lucky
You might catch the earworm
Of an unheard melody