A yellow river doth not a yellow people make, nor yellow mud a race. Colored earths make flowers, foods and artifacts, maybe, and race is made towards water, shelters. Blue earth, green people, red river folks, black and white, by virtue play love at any ironrose colored river without coloring putrid. Except now. The color of some of the rivers in the Peoples Republic of China have to be difficult to describe, stranger than pressure-treated lumber. What was that there cascading from the high north and western plateaux and headwaters of the Yellow River? Who gets the poison? What an oxymoronic, but dialectical aesthetic is the Lady Zhao, fresh invented as the yellow emporer’s conscience, the River Elegy, feminine Humanity and Democracy while in the opposite direction the pregnant progeny are to the mountain-wild-place where the baby may be born, illegal, yet present and hope safe for more moments now. Feed white tiger or red mytho-dragon cavalier commissar fatherfucking world-turning-upside downers. So sweet a no brainer; it really was a she, and it had come forty OK thousand years ago, already forty K on from near where Nelson Mandela has peace at home. OK. The colors are greys, and browns right; look, if it is not seen, it has to be discussed. It’s the relationship, stupid!
I.R. Finch