gun-green umbrella

Glanton spat. Hack away you mean red nigger, he said, and the old man raised the axe and split the head of John Joel Glanton to the thrapple. - Blood Meridian.

Like an apparition, I watch melodic mnemonic strangers melt into the daylight, seduced cartridges within dead shells under my feet, shell casings and ballistic bits of chalk. I sit on black smooth stone benches and watch the floods of ebony and caramel colored curses, prisons of sleek shoes and Lakeshore's grimy, gum-splotched sidewalks of foaming, rabid people in a death-dance, a sad, somber elevator waltz, mechanical doors that don't operate properly, exploding army-arcs of butterfly orchestrated escalator helicopters overhead, hit by rockets, little people pouring out like bitter-camouflaged pepper snowflakes, the blood-bloated moth-markets and suicidal shoppers, duct-taped bombs on the backs of aspiring adolescents, flashing cement shards and silent nails, afghan red camels and expensive leather wallets among the ruined plastic mannequins and destroyed rubble, red eyes, red bones and red marrow, raw red canvas of cobblestone and weeping red gluts between the ribs.