In Search of the Color Green

What about the layers of pastels, oil pastels, acrylic chalk mixings, lacquor, linseed oil, precious pollen of ancient extinct plants pestled carefully with one pinch of powdered gold mined where the sky is perpetually pink, she asked sweetly?

Does it mean nothing that cute peach-cheeked boys were killed for the better good or that Neil Young sang his plaintive songs endlessly, or Chris Isaac for that matter, or Doyle Bramhall II?

"So let me do more now than I´ve done before
I´m goin´ down to where the river flows."

Ha! You missionary position in the Kama Sutra Universe. Get thee back! All the Goyas have devoured all the sons of Saturn beside all the flowing oceans, rivers, lakes, tributaries, branches, tricklets.

I stoop before you. I lick one drop. To no avail.

Wailing and gnashing of teeth continues as men fan out to discover new waterways. Using the maps of astronauts and insulating properties developed in the laboratories of the highest of humanitarian chemists, they begin the soft genocide, the gathering of information, the paper which must surely follow.

Perhaps bottled in Michigan, on an assembly line, by a chubby adolescent girl in a kitchen, tasting exactly like grass stains on the uniform of a high school football player.

The taste of progress with flavors, colors, authentic taste. The new water. We set our eyes, together, on the horizon. We search for the color green.