Published February 4, 2010

They melt into the sewage that flows down the street into tunnels that pipeline past homes, at the bottom end of city skylines. Caged rats that have earned their wings to fly but choose to burrow underground until they reach an exit downtown, where they rise again. They are the melting pot. They spew good faith, anger and apathy into streams of flowing sounds like rainwater, gathering at the tip of the paintbrush of the blind artist who melts colors together until they have no identity and form a picture of the world; genuine.

Pictures are filled with them. Faded voices of bright neon and orange glows glossing eyes over, glaring, bright lit flares, flying, venturing over expensive violet skies, scaling walls of air to find new landscapes. Lost or found. They find exits everywhere like water in earth, birthing themselves in thoughts of aquatic nightmares, sipping colors in clear cup glasses.

They spell gray motions like flying concrete spilling over side walk curbs. They spell the world. Colors that illuminate silver walls like spilt passion mixing in water.

The melting pot stirs.