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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required My YouTube Russian car crash wreckophilia comes from a bad head on in the family car near rural Shreveport Louisiana in 1947 when I was a tyke whose favorite berth was the stowage space behind the back seat under the wide rear panorama window of our forest green '42 Chevy Fleetline last I remember was mom screaming oh Ed quickly followed by a wild spinning surprise and waking up in the road shoulder tall grass a Samaritan blotting the egg sized raspberry just above my right knee no other injuries the scar faint but still there like an old sailor tattoo I can see scraps of his toilet paper roll blotter fluttering down the levy bank in the breeze oval red blood blotches on each square an accordion of hinged Rorschach cut out dolls the road was wet after a summer shower which caused the unchecked skid trajectory into a farm family's oncoming Model A pickup my mom is laying on the ground unconscious blood oozing down her forehead and cheek after hitting the windshield with her face but strangely I was not concerned with her or dad the shutterbug who started taking pictures of the wreck scene a single one of which remains in a box of album photos in the closet oddly my only concern was with the Fleetline front end crumpled bumper mangled and askew driver side headlight hanging out by its wires I stood in front of it inconsolable crying out my car...my car... my car... over and over as the tow truck backed up with its hook dangling and chains rattling God knows what the psychology of that moment could have been or today concerning my chronic fascination with disassembly
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