The case of John Wayne

The John Wayne crutches were built in doppelgangerized bakelite

he used to walk by the Far West with his shadow taller than the alamos of Alamogordo, crutch by crutch, telling his simple parts with invariable and monocorde voice.

His pants were sanforized blue-jeans, Lee

his eyes observved the silvery mountain range of Sierra Madre: all the health and good humor of the Americas were in his stare.

During the filming sessions, John Wayne divided the waters of the river Rio Grande, like a tall prophet from the Old Testament, to pass through the dried corridor, on horse: his Wayney lips sucked a thin straw with all the wild calm of the Americas.

In mystic ride toward Cordova, the neverending twilight accompanied hym, orange and blue, blue like California
his back was erect like a pine and it was sunned by Apollo, the saddle was tanned in pure Uruguayan leather, from Colonia del Sacramento, and it had rustic cigarros in the pocket.

During the sapphire Death Valley nights, the hörses foraged on the elevated terraces under the ovoid moon, sheltered from the catarrh of the sky.

In my opinion, during the long nights of caravan toward Yuma, John Wayne drank black coffee and ate tortas charras fried in Wyoming.

His voyce sounded like a Republican stomachal thunder

hys boots were as long as the poplars of Laredo

the plastic gun and the cartridge belt were fallen on the ground.

Only someone born in the Americas could understand the unsafe and the wild

it's in me in spite of myself, it can't go away, and also fuck you.

And still the electricity of his hat combed the yellow grasses of Mesa.

In my opinion, one day, John Wayne died.

The rancho is not the same anymore, Wayne.