Sally shakes the sand that holds the world in focus. Her manifold, an origami steel intestine is a wavy, etch-a-sketch reflection in headlamp. Faded Arlington green meets tarnished bullets—a platitude that 17-year-old chauffer Charles Carr entertained for a lifespan—now considered classic, even sought after. She perceives, through various points-of-contact the impressions left in the curl of surface condensate, a rainbow swirling, until the transmitting across—not simply human in her mechanical impulse—ceases movement.
In the dust of her belly a trail of inky foam, colored by endless tribute—a fondness for a time that knew only lead and abundance. Time meted out, Sally’d forth you’d muse, with classic Fingeredare gloves caressing her column shifter. Fellow automotive carcasses cut a contrast unremarkable at first glance, those old bubbles of guilt fingered beyond betrayal, past the safety of seatbelts and moderation. Spidered windshield once a face in a window. A memory of fire.
God get a witness to indulge the poverty of cracked solenoid languished in the dead machinery of Sally’s lonely boneyard.
Those rust ringed lips and pencil inspired hips embrace torn speaker cone—the same sun bleached tolex once warbled an old tune after the flash of steel dulled in the ashen skies of Kentucky—Goodyears lulled by the approaching sirens, red and blue lights crushed in her fin. Skin cold-to-the-touch as a chromium fender from the shake of a hypodermic on New Years Day in ’53.
Had she the capacity for sentiment she would have preferred the ownership of a French collector with an eventual commission from a presidential museum curator. If I’d only… assembly line…’61 spec…star of Dealey Plaza. Instead, Sally saw seashells made of crippled chrome Fords and reconciled herself to the resilience of carbon fiber quarter panels.
An evolution churns underneath exhaust and reverberates in her ‘cheatin’ heart.’ Her chassis chastised by firmament. Behold the retrograde forced luxury, blue vinyl interior recalling the hands of a man caressing the neck of an acoustic guitar, her machine recollection preserved under dust and Birmingham soil shaken from broken-in boot heels.
She pays tribute to flesh, navigating the memory of motion as we pay tribute in progress.