cold is the color of my faded blue jeans
ripped to the tune of her rockslide sigh.
cold is the color of the cat claw scratch
in the inimitable sanguine sun. electric
carnivores glowing in their buckets
floating toward the restoration of the
suburban dream, or is it the illusion and
confusion marked by my curry stained
fingers? unsustainable cultural stews
ripped from our precious mouths. cold
is the color of the blue cloud dance it’s
sombrero falling with the rain over corn
fields and vineyards. so, i’ll drink my
wine and try to find the meaning in all
the elucidations and hallucinations. the
raw cold reflecting off the safe harbor
of her pale blue eyes - lingers on…
contemporary contemplations of
windswept prairies where it all began.
trojan blankets small poked the five
hundred nations into bondage and
oblivion. i sit here now two hundred
years later in a strip mall fantasy
waiting for kim kardashian to return
on her digital wave to complete the
final rotting of our contaminated,
irradiated minds. i’ve seen them.
they could be the best minds. the cold
calculation of the destruction of the
humanitarian kinds. like colored
christmas balls they rise and fall. my
galileo thermometer marks the chill of
the faded dried yellow rose that sits
on my desk from my best friend’s
wedding, but it continues to rock on.
it is the keith richards of the floral
world. it renders all cold dampening
of the eclectic fires null and void next
to the old picture with the shape of her
thighs in her faded blue jeans ripped
just strategically enough to give me
hope.  

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