Friday, June 29, 2018


most stains in experience are indelible, 
though whitewashed every day, 
though each coming dark leaves 
each experience an erasure, it's 
the erasure that continues us.
most stains don't come out, they stay, sigh, 
expand in palimpsests.  
the fellow who camped around the corner from here in the train arcade was swept away. 
his traces remain. around the corner where the man was swept away
this same mural is whitewashed.  
the remains recall the missing. 
something always remains, a trace of regard, 
what emanates, the essence 
of what is taken. a life of disappointment 
in america, being raised by abandonment, 
schooled by chaos, chaos of deceptions and controls, chaos of conformities, 
the unfathomable disappointment of america's crimes, nothing, nothing, 
nothing for the soul but erasure, nothing prepares one, any one, for the ultimate heartbreak of america.

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