I can refill my tank but my soul’s on empty. Running on fumes, wisps of memories of less-paved places.

F3 --- Fuck Fossil Fuels

Maybe I’ll start a green cult. Or just get tough, ditch the Isuzu and walk. But I’m conditioned to love road trips and muscle cars and that acidic smell of gasoline fumes.

This soulless town used to have a shred of history, and it stood on a corner. It was “Good.” They smashed it to ruble and built another station. Another “Qwik-e Mart” Impregnated the formerly loved ground with million gallon tanks. O gasoline, the lubricant of the anal sex that is industrialization.

Woe is the humorless hypocrite who will take the Isuzu to the pump tomorrow.

In Phoenix, there used to be flower fields, now only a Diamond Shamrock grows. A Shell of the real thing. Seven Hundred and Eleven unwanted locations. Encircling a K, around a thousand dreams, all drowning in the buried tanks of a Gas City, a gas nation, a world unwilling to be weaned.

Truly paying at the pump, with dollars and freedom gone by the gallon.

You should not need gasoline to survive.

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