- Published on
Amtrak Poems: Graffiti in The Underpass October 9th, 2026
Quagmires and swampy edges of foliage hold me as winter approaches; scintillating leaves shift into blurs of red, umber, chartreuse and mauvy red along this undulating railway. Bound to supportive structures, a ribbon of graffiti lined the pathways, sidewalls, bridges, and CSX trailers of intercontinental railways along the Lakeshore Limited. Greeting us on the right of the Amtrak tunnel, an epitaph to the long departed or recently invited lapse forward, akin to puckering mounds of thread spooled up like a towel's downy surface: these signs accumulate across the world, becoming a silken ribbon of drive and defiance. This long line of creative power lies bare, weathered by storms and rubbing forces of passing wind; these palimpsests on carved ferrous rock are now unbound, becoming records of an urban cuneiform.
One wonders who is more damaging. The graffiti or the callousness of society unable to face its own destructive forces, unwilling to actually address the emotionally and physically impoverished.
Swaths of creative effort expand like a long vine, reaching from city to county, to town, and to country. Each tag runs the risk of exposure and capture; with a unique name and vision, they boldly stamp these hidden places, tied to each other as illegal means of expression. This art of bold colour and high impact are acts of resilience in a world that ultimately operates on exclusion and devastation.
Along the twisting valleys, guttural phrases and tags emerge into the foreground, proving that the insurmountable, immeasurable miles of American grandeur can be taken back for
The People.
Irredescent granite glitters with flecks of mica and pyrite covered in swaths of grey, beige and obligatory white restoration paint. Heapsings of presence and care emerge from the darkness, recombining in the tangled mess of subterranean markings. Within these caverns of urban sprawl are the signatures and love letters sent yet undelivered. Each mark asks to be seen; each artist yearns for the support and witness that community offers, which they may have never received in their childhoods. Signatures tie back water and dilapidated spaces to the angst, hopelessness, and decay of social order and economic promises. They are raw and spread like squash blossoms, adding colour to the neglected or bustling landscapes of urban centres. Those in the community with graffiti artists create ties to the past through the darkness.
Dancing in the dwindling light, coral, pink, purple and white marks resist the encroaching dark. Again and again these signatures bubble up, standing proud across stunning vistas of the Hudson and other unknown places. Amazingly, these drawings are nestled in the interstices behind railway fences and commercial real estate. Each name runs the risk of being over taken by weeds, paint, removal, or erosion.
Some names are drawn over, lapsing in an arms race to garner the most attention. These words pressed up against the bare rock of sheer heights of siloes and oil tankers are disturbing and entrancing in the risk and reward involved in their completion. I’m not alone in my yearning for beauty; luckily, I find my hope in these palimpsests.
Dancing in the openings between restricted employee access and train vantage points. The offerings of representation and acknowledgement are here besides tepid waters. The late summer sun caries over to fall, and we are all wondering how much longer this good weather will last.
Tags, signatures, and graffiti are manifestations of human spirits eager to transgress against an unfair and truly inoperable system.
We may not be able to encourage the “defacement of public property", but why must swaths of poor people face rules and laws that offer protection to the decrepit structures of White supremacist systems? This energy of “defacement” may be the true calling to make change in this world, once harnessed.
Maybe these are the signs that we are looking for? Maybe tags are asking us to open our hearts to love each other and remind us that our identities are worth being represented, and when life refuses to acknowledge your pain, you must fight with the tools at your disposal. Graffiti, no art, is our right, or truth, and our will as downtrodden and ignored people. If you want it to stop, give us a reason to, give us the mic and listen. Act right, and maybe shit will level. Enumerations of colourful tags lie on rocky surfaces like carved initials in tree bark. Who hurts more, the tree or the heartbreak?
These tags stretch for miles up what I can assume is the Hudson River, a name known by map but not truly known to my heart. I’m swept in the speed and variation of changing leaves. Flickering in the brilliance of a fading sun, the waning of light gives added pressure to the lines, revealing the argus fight for representation and raising stakes and cool points.
