Spinning thin air, Earth’s Cocoon-warmed green blends well with Tree-Bark Brown as Africa shines like a Rusty, Crabby Apple, a warm reddish brown, a shade darker than Borscht, brown with just a hint of Mauved Beet.
Sun shines Ceremonial Gold, a golden hue hazed with a touch of Red Cent, a warm penny color as mountains mold Majestic Purple, a very near indigo blue, very regal, a bright, happy blue Aquarium with a splash of Dusty Wood Violet.
All the colors of Sherwin Williams shining the galaxy like a well-marketed Marble—commercialization at its finest covering the earth.
Step closer. Breathe in.
People smile like car salesmen skipping too and fro, dressed to the T in Old Navy happy and bright, sparkling as an underwear ad, the Fruit of the Loom of the Sports Section, splurging at the Mall on Jesus Christ’s Master Card, no payments or interest for the next six months.
Happy habits. Humvees idol like America, blowing fresh carbon with just a hint of Dynamo, a modern Fuchsia Feverishly Pink, super-bright fluorescence to be used in moderation for narrow trim, for example. Moderation heaps on our plate like a pile of Plum Brown smelling deep purplish, the color of a freshly plucked ripened plum fragrancing to High Heaven.
Greed’s what we need, tapioca caviar, diamonds and lace, beautiful black gold from the loins of the Earth, guaranteed by birth for the worth of a serf. Lord, let us surf.
Lean in. Smell the addiction. Not head on, glared in the glare of an alcoholic’s prediction, but real, in the periphery, where you can really smell the shit.
Curious disease. Alert-calm hoodlum eyes when the spoon’s got money to burn, blood-shot starvation when the stars vex Men. Will ya tell Bill Burroughs to shoot an apple off the head of a Mexican grave, shiver in a closet when the junk’s cleaned out?
Black gunk’s finite; dinosaurs are running out. We’re on the edge of Armageddon, like Mel Gibson ripped in ‘80’s leather, beating Tina Turner in the streets.
Like Mad Max men pretending to be Hell’s Angels, Andy Pag and John Grimshaw burned motorbikes across the Sierra at the turn of the last century. But then they smelled the oil burning in the periphery. It stank Plum Brown of regret.
So looking in the mirror last Christmas, Pag and Grimshaw drove an SUV to Timbuktu high on rabbit chocolate. From England across the Sierra, the pair drove a Bio Truck fueled by 3 tons of discarded chocolate bunny rabbits converted into 396 gallons of biodiesel, according to the Christian Science Monitor. Bio fuel made from Easter candy. Who knew?
Does Jesus? Has it dawned on the Son of God that even chocolate can be an alternative energy, while all the wile we burn holes in the ozone, painting the earth like some oily watercolor for our own cosmic fridge?
What will Jesus do when He opens humanity’s Master Card bill one cold Christmas Eve? Take His own name in vain? Curse God and the day we were born? Or will He kick back with Godiva, a good glass of scotch, put His feet on His desk, smell His smelly socks? 80 percent cocoa beans just might have the means to keep Jesus from blowing His top.
