photo by Jack Christian (c) 2004
	The dead-car wagon is a beast-borne load. It rolls out of the peace of ass and rattles up and down the old Appalachian hills: toward the American speedway, and the blasted bordertown of Eden. N.C. Its fuel is a hot imagining that pulls into a grim parking-lot horizon. For the sake of a name, we call its gas of grass and hay the Great-Green-Word-Hope: really, it's just a tiny trashfire we keep kindled deep in our wandering carcasses.
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