history isn’t recorded. an odd thing to
say.
perspective is recorded.
groups, color, noncolor, document their
histories.
it seems arbitrary, or ignoble, or
painful. a
soul with an identity, a misprint, others
latch
on to caricature, false motifs, or
humbling
accuracy.
in a house, we let light in—in history, we
close
light out. it can’t be said, in any
design, all
peoples are hiding, sheltered by
perspective—
too many are letting light in.
much has been undocumented, burned, it
wasn’t
apropos, decent, it revealed humanity—in a
different group of survivors.
things, positions, frames are omitted,
Machado
points to an archive.
what is put into an archive?
we decide one eraser, in exchange for
perspective,
while one group depicts integrity—others,
lower
ranks, ideas, classifications.
a cedarchest has a key. it’s filled with
documents.
a group sorts through them, asking, how in
hell
did this get here?
it’s accurate—it’s not pure—it must be discarded.
who will record I was here? my contribution?
my fury? my love?
was I ever here? were we seated at
inauguration?
