The disappearance of Josey Wales

"He's not a hard man to track... leaves dead men wherever he goes."

After spitting petroleum, the tall elevation of the outlaw is standing in front of a piano at the edge of Death Valley, el Valle de la Muerte.

Because the spectator is standing in front of elongated mileage in Metrocolor canned into VHS.

Like a guapo in poncho he attacks in raid to decimate indiscriminately inviled Union soldiers, comancheros 'n' the desperadoes bastardos who kidnap 'n' rape women, the meanest and nastiest riff-raff passing to Mendoza:

his life? 5 cents.

"Dyin' ain't much of a living, boy... " -he said-

and the vertical grooves of his face get stretched 'n' abyssal under the oviform sun.




High, over the Meseta Madre, the silvery water of Rio Santo sanforize the 104 Indian Nations, while, 1 kilometre away, among the perforated diligences, a sort of Anglo carnival takes place, with Mexican fiddles badly played, a desert's ritual where the Johnson's and the Smith's drink aguardiente from Calexico

the man who... spits petroleum on the cracked ground, he just beholds the promiscuous fiesta seated at a distant corner with a thin thread of paja in his lips
his right eye is actually monitoring every movement, because one only trusts in his gun

gold 'n' black.

"The cactuses are Sicilian over here, and the blue sky is a photoshop scheme announcing that... the beautiful places are mortal... " -I said-



and the inebriated humanity of Kelly falls clumsily on the grass kissing lasciviously the breast of one of the dancer girls from the saloon of Mac Manus.














Later, one day, or 100.  
Riding.
The guapo sinks himself into a noisy and horizontal evening sun.

Yellow. 
His equidistant shadow galloping away is yellow.
The trot of his horse is yellow.
He is yellow. 
The spectator is yellow. Like Buñuel in Biarritz.

 

The disappearance of Josey Wales