The wreck of three cars,
mashed into one mass of junk,
clunks down the highway,
more potholes than not,
towards a bridge that used to go
somewhere, now, nowhere,
except air, and an
endless fall to the junkyard.
Dash cams, body cams,
stationary cams,
continuously record
the execution
from all angles, with
continuous comments on
the execution,
continually
play it back with incessant
commentary on
the executions
of the camerawork, on
the executions
of the comments, on
the execution of me-
ta-commentary
on the incessant
eternal fall into junk,
on the transcendent
execution of
the trinitarian mass
American mash-up.
Roy Herndon Smith
dust 