I spotted this hippie wagon, seemingly abandoned in the sleepy village of Burlington, Indiana. Located in the very heart of Redstate Amërïkä.
They don't smoke marijuana in Burlington.
But the meth labs and bootleg food stampers thrive on subsidized agriculture and addiction. Between hookworm treatments, the local unwed mothers lounge on crudely fashioned plywood porches watching the barefoot children play in the mud and discarded beer cans. New spring grasses struggle to grow in trash-strewn yards among the brightly-colored dandelions and last winter's dog shit.
In front of decrepit houses, once proud old men sit on buckets and lawn chairs, cigarettes clenched between grim teeth, as they watch the livestock trucks rumble through town carrying the undead swine to their final destination. Shrieking indignation, pink skin pressed against vent holes, urine and vomit oozing through floor drains, leaving a faint trail of trichinosis on the crumbling pavement of highway 39.
And there, on the edge of town tucked in beside the rail tracks, a broke-down purple microbus sits lonely and out of place, still smelling of residual patchouli, body odor and hemp, its owners unseen. Hopped a freight on The Santa Fe line no doubt, headed for Woodstock, like wandering, psychedelic ghosts.