The easiest color was always a resonator from national american violence on tv (with gold) to every tree and blade of grass's analogy to crowds and their discontents. Solid 'tude was given a shove by some sort of brain chemicals gleaned on the field; it was simpler to cry for loneliness on the elementary school football field and at the first poem's original line: I wish I had a quiet class. That's how second grade and beyond appeared: boredom beige rooms of desks without a trace of chartreuse and its friends. And all my training reporting various positive banalities to the home keepers keeps going to work in memoir pages, poems, and the sense that nailing down a definition for living and oneself would be the equivalent of seeing a single green.