My Protagonist Kim Carson Lyrics

This is from a Western in progress entitled 'The Place Of Dead Rows'
My protagonist Kim Carson finds himself in deadly conflict with Mr. Hart, the press tycoon and old man Bickford of beef and oil baron.
And Bickford has a special price on Kim's head, because Kim killed old man Bickford's son in a gunfight.
Real Western!
For three days Kim camped on the Macy tops sweeping the valley with his binoculars.
A cloud of dust headed south told him they figured him to ride south for Mexico.
It headed north instead, into a land of sandstone formations.
And everywhere caves pocked into the red rock like bubbles in boiling oatmeal.
Some of the caves have been lived in at one time or another. Rusty tin cans, pottery shards, cartridge cases. Kim found an arrow head six inches long, chipped from obsidian. And a smaller arrow head, a rose coloured flint.
Dust was flowing and blue shadows gathered in the Sangria Christo Mountains to the east.
Sangria Christo, Blood of Christ, rivers of blood, mountains of blood!
Does Christ never get tired of bleeding?!
It is raining in the Homines Mountains
It is raining Anita Huffington
Last words of General Grant, spoken to his nurse
'Circuits in his brain flickering out like lightening in grey clouds'
Pottery shards, arrowheads, rusting fish hooks.
You can see there was a cabin here once.
A hypodermic syringe glints in the sun.
He holds the rose flint arrow head in his hand.
And he fondles the obsidian arrowhead, so fragile, to they break every time they were used like bee stings, he wonders.
Somebody made this arrowhead it had a creator long ago.
This arrowhead is the only proof of his existence.
So living things can also be seen as artefacts designed for a purpose.
So perhaps the human artefact had a creator?
Perhaps the stranded space traveller needed the human vessel to continue his voyage and he made it for that purpose?
He died before he could use it, he found another escape route.
This artefact shaped to fill a forgotten need. Now has no more meaning or purpose than this arrow head without the arrow and the bow, the arm and the eye.
Or perhaps the human artefact was the creators' last card played in an old game many light years ago.
Chill an empty space, Kim gathers wood for a fire.
The stars are coming out. There's the Big Dipper.
His fathers grey face on a pillow. His father points to Betelgeuse in the night sky over St. Louis.
Helpless pieces in the game he plays on this checker board of nights and days. So fragile, shivers and gathers wood.
Slave gods in the firmament. He remembers his fathers' last words,
'Stay outta churches son'
'All I got a key to is the shit house'
'And swear to me you will never wear a policeman's badge'
Hither and thither and rows and checks and slaves, and one by one and back in the closet lay rusty tin cans, pottery shards, cartridge cases, arrow heads, a hypodermic syringe glints in the sun.