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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