"Love what lives... fry the rest." Like ragged gravel poured across a gutteral rasp, the words spilled forcibly from his lips as he preached to the rusting shrines, those decaying automotive shells which house their dust laden, forgotten worlds. Sometimes he referred to them as his children, a ragamuffin orphanage of seasoned metal, glass and rubber, shelved, piled -- no, more like configured, with a librarian's precision, sandwiched between each other and his memories of their era; collated recollections selectively inserted here, there; affixed, as dated license plates 'neath grills and bumpers no designers will dare create again; autosculptors, he believes, have lost their nerve and context.
Rabbits, lizards, cats and birds, a dog named Bolts... this rabbled collection of disciples who have come, comprise a choir of sifted souls; their brave enlistment, or desperate gestures chasing significance, join them to the sacred grounds which grow the dirt beneath the eyeless carcasses, broken-toothed chromium grins, and creaking groans of squeaking rust. These meticulous caregivers occupy Eden's corner, nurturing via the pat of feet, fluttered wing and choruses of chaotic praise, this fragile garden.
A quite distinctive fragrance wanders there when whisper-soft melting rain, splatters icing over every thirsty surface, activates a secret scent which fills his nostrils, with... imagination; as freshened soil and weeds enhance the fleeting prospect of those shiny, momentarily reborn painted metal skins; which in that greying light lose blemish, dent and sorrow; unmasking lost personas.
Upon occasion he does settle gently still upon a dustly aromatic cushioned seat inside some chosen craft and sometimes studies starry depths through glassless windshields, notes the moonbeam-laden dashboard, and is comforted by those white-blue reflections dancing across such glorious art-deccoed landscapes stretched inside from door to door. As he fingers silver buttons, rotates dials, remnants of the last of all the real radios, sometimes he allows himself to hear a greater Tune which enters slowly, through open, hanging door; almost audible, the rich wrapped groan, chorded moans, heaven-spilled raptured tones of cello, low and lonely plays mournful, powerful, complete.
Washing through the car, it effortlessly wraps him in the blanket of a God who apparently, also, pays attention.