First of all, there’s parking.

Lots of it.

Vast fields of black macadam where herds of cattle, weary from their journey from Abilene down the Chisholm Trail once grazed, chewing their last cud before pooling into the fatal cul-de-sac in the stockyards of Fort Worth.

Parking lots as big and wide as the Texas sky, where the sun doesn’t shine, it glares at you like an angry god.

Where sunsets start at two o’clock in the afternoon and the light leaks out of the sky like blood from a throat-slit heifer.

In Dallas the days don’t end, they die.

Death hangs in the air like trail dust across intersections the size of football fields in Dallas.

You can see Death hunched over it’s whiskey at the far end of every bar.

Death rides shotgun in every pick up truck.

It crackles in the neon of every fast food place on Lemmon Avenue.

It’s the secret ingredient in every bar-b-que sauce.

It stands watch in a book depository window and reclines on a grassy knoll.

Death shoots pool, plays cards, watches sports.

It hovers over nursery schools in the form of glossy black birds that aren’t crows and aren’t ravens either.

People don’t live in Dallas, they kill time.


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