Rainbow on Fire

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Abstract

e. What color are you — I am pink, purple and blue. Nonsense. I am only yellow. All of it. Bisexuality is a myth — what? We are past that. Yes, no. The rainbow seems to be going berserk. It does not know what to do with its many colors. Pink is nothing like red. Never. But, it is red mixed with white with love; and white is all the colors. Is it not? Yes. We hold reflections of each other. I know you so well, you live in me. You know that — right? No.Ah well, we might not be the same. Exact, same. But we are all projections, nonetheless. We all have 7000 heads each, give or take. In those heads asexuals sleep in the same bed as Kashmiri separatists and obese mixed race kids have the same teeth as that of heartbroken chiseled Spanish men. When buildings melts, we all know, they become the same sludge an

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d when dolphins die (they never die) they become our Christmas trees. When a Jesus is born, a thousand flies settle on his once open wounds. You don’t understand, our rainbow is on fire, we can not be distracted by a specific idea of God. This is our final chance to see what colors, seem to say, when banded together. They make open arches for all of us to enter. Even the ones, who cannot walk, like those deeply rooted trees.I see rain ashes sprinkled in my garden. My flowers are going gray. I love gray but with the clouds, the sky, the sun and now my flowers — all the same tone of gray — I wonder. However, being gray, that too, ashes of the same burnt rainbow, I see how we are in complete harmony — true unison. Not one of us sticking out like a clown. Not one of us brilliantly blue.</article></body>

A Freedom Struggle

I write this, with a burning tongue. Our rainbow is on fire. Its colors are turning to ashes. Thankfully, we all hold a sun each between our eyes, our tears can bring about new colors in the rain. But, I want more. I don’t want colors to be just hanging in the sky.

On this land, our land — I want rainbows to erupt from every dark corner and from every artificial light source. What color are you — I am pink, purple and blue. Nonsense. I am only yellow. All of it. Bisexuality is a myth — what? We are past that. Yes, no. The rainbow seems to be going berserk. It does not know what to do with its many colors. Pink is nothing like red. Never. But, it is red mixed with white with love; and white is all the colors. Is it not? Yes. We hold reflections of each other. I know you so well, you live in me. You know that — right? No.

Ah well, we might not be the same. Exact, same. But we are all projections, nonetheless. We all have 7000 heads each, give or take. In those heads asexuals sleep in the same bed as Kashmiri separatists and obese mixed race kids have the same teeth as that of heartbroken chiseled Spanish men. When buildings melts, we all know, they become the same sludge and when dolphins die (they never die) they become our Christmas trees. When a Jesus is born, a thousand flies settle on his once open wounds. You don’t understand, our rainbow is on fire, we can not be distracted by a specific idea of God. This is our final chance to see what colors, seem to say, when banded together. They make open arches for all of us to enter. Even the ones, who cannot walk, like those deeply rooted trees.

I see rain ashes sprinkled in my garden. My flowers are going gray. I love gray but with the clouds, the sky, the sun and now my flowers — all the same tone of gray — I wonder. However, being gray, that too, ashes of the same burnt rainbow, I see how we are in complete harmony — true unison. Not one of us sticking out like a clown. Not one of us brilliantly blue.