Bucky Follows a Cold TrailMaureen Thorson
This mythos rides hard against the dust gathered on broken headlights outside of Phoenix. The go-to houses of the snowbird set: abandoned. Just like the deli, the carpark, the celebrated taco truck. Bucky’s horse kicks his delicate hooves, up and away from the sundazed tarmac’s fading lines. Plastic bottles are Bucky’s tumbleweed; empty clotheslines his barbed wire. The west has always dealt in economies of scale – sheer canyons, widening bowls of dust; crowds of miraculous gulls streaming after plagues of hard, bright-bodied locusts, but these foreclosure signs undo the terrain, turn it back from paradise into a tough arroyo. Trotting across a former golf course grown back into desert, an infinite sand trap, Bucky’s a girl-faced dude in the trash of a crash: the lost wages of wealth’s vanity.
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