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  • Once a car was a car, fire wrapped in steel to transport bodies and things, matter. Across deserts the raging V-8 wildfires were contained by hoods and cherry pink custom paint.

    Cars were heavy duty baubles which got you where you were going, and nowhere was a pretty swell place to go in the boomtime. Money makes time look different.

    Then cars became homes and a car unmoving which might have seemed unnatural was just fine, even swell if you were bloated swollen with debt. A car could be a home underwater in a dry desert land like an amputee from a boomtime so resembling an economic chart of busy bee factory wartime.

    A car is no home though it may be a shelter. It is a sick skin for a human.

    The car peels, abrades, the air performs a hell spa on the covering, vandals take the handles, the wheel, the living room radio the dash radio becomes, the marauders remove the springs, the velour, the Christmas tree winter green hanging air freshener, the bobble dog from the back window. Coyotes curl like noshing wilds down from their mountain grey kingdoms.

    Foreclose our hearts, our abodes, abode and wheel steel, this tender thing, a car once a desert engine monster, a smooth fire to while away the cross country hours...and now broken, still, a home in a lot, once this proud beauty sat beside a house, sat in a driveway.

    Now the house has been taken, the mortgage is down in the watery deep with the mansion shipwreck naufrage galleons, now the golden dream and the backseat romancing has come to be a clothes hamper, a shoe rack, a kitchen, a living room, a bed.

    When the house is gone, the car becomes the house. A shoebox from a story, and in the desert, the steel shoe has become your house. And the elements foreclose in their ticktock daily.



    (Photo by Susan)
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