The arc of the rainbow has only one arrow: Kirk Greenway

Oh, Bob, what do you think of our hero now?

Thousands of faces and myriad powers…

He’s drunk in the gutter, singing of Mithra.

She has thousands of arms to carry water.

He’s spiraling upward with wings made of wax.

She’s stitching up skins like it was a carpet.

He shows up like a beggar, kills all the suitors.

She’s a spider endlessly weaving.

Now adamantine, then forgiving,

Sophia, Ganymede, or Antiope —

What do you think of our hero now?

What do you see our hero do now?

I see twins raised by wolves who build a city.

I see gold bricked bridges that lead to nowhere.

I see a red maple on fire that keeps burning.

I see a field full of farmers with their sickles singing.

I see a rope ladder swaying that leads to heaven.

I see a million ‘copters whose blades were all broken.

I see guns and sharp knives in the hands of agnostics.

What do you think of our hero now?

And what did you hear about our hero now?

I heard the humpbacks sing while strapped in my car.

Heard the sound of lightning like the snare on a drum

Heard a Hadoop blow that could level a forest

Heard someone in earnest warning of storms to come

Heard the cryin’ of children in hospital beds bleedin’

Heard the laugh of a clown who caught on fire

What hero do we have to fight for us now?

Who did you meet while looking for a hero?

I met one who gave me a rainbow.

I met an orange bard retreating from the camera.

I met a red necromancer with soft petaled eyes.

I met a blue child holding a dead mother’s hand.

I met a scarred one who hid it with a yellow tattoo.

I met another scarred one who said it was from a green surgeon

What battle is worth it? What targets worth hitting?

What’ll you do now, now you’re uranium?

“I’m a-goin’ back out [be]fore the [fallout] starts a-fallin’”

I’ll crawl in the caves where the children are drownin’.

I’ll walk to the middle of the dry altiplano.

Where the birds are many, and their tongues are all dry

I’ll stand by the fences and factory gates.

Where they hurl clouds of acid into red maple forests

I’ll canoe in the rivers where the pipeline meets waters.

Where home on the range means tent surrounded by grizzly

I’ll shiver in the cold hitchhiking to Kansas.

Where the face of the wizard is behind a curtain

Where facts and truth are too hard to find

Where the night comes quickly and is obscurant

Where no matter how many Florida pills are taken, there is no curing

I will immerse myself it till this age has passed.

I will broadcast it in ways that everyone can know it.

I will go into the burning house and take out the trapped living.

And I won’t shoot from the hip and will go down swinging.

For Bob.