Off-gassing by the Overpass

Sections of two totemic verticals, side by side / Mixed media artwork on wood / Russell C. Smith

Off-gassing by the overpass, out by the howling moon. Feeling the decades float upwind of  Chevy Impalas, sinking into the rusted wreckage of the scenic junkyard. The lingering smell of gasoline loiters in the air like a fever dream from a Mad Max movie. Unearthing centuries past, starting with the twentieth century, closest one in our rearview—seems so damned historical and not nearly as hysterical as the early twenty-first. There’s talk of creating a new world odor having nothing to do with burning fossil fuels. Let’s debate it in a town hall in Anytown, USA, while the Amazon Rainforest chases us toward the horizon like a rabid jaguar. The future is electric; the past is future. This moment is all we’ve got to go on. Broadcast on wall-sized flat-screens, the roiling turmoil of senseless wars running on fumes of yesteryears deep-rooted hatreds. Empires crumbling, voices mumbling. Here we are, gasping for air, as we breathe in the last lingering breaths of Cleopatra and Anthony (Cleo and Tony to their friends) while snake-bit and sword-stabbed they finally lie at rest, leaving their mark on history. Time to gaze up at the dark sky then wander in the woods. Finding ourselves under yonder oak tree before the coming deluge washes it all away. On another channel wide-open eyes are staring with horror at a once-in-a-thousand years storm, happening over a long weekend. Receding flood waters uncover: miraculously intact bones that lived inside a creature long before the dinosaurs, the slightly cracked skull of a gray alien, and a lime green 1964 Volkswagen Karmann Ghia hardtop.

2022 / Russell C. Smith

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