Hopeless me, I lay the vast expanse of you before me like a map
And make the market of you
Squalid and vast,
Pristine with vandal hope
The time and voice of you
Vertigris green: a Liberty lady.
I huddle and hope you will welcome me
The creaking of your Texan boots
The smell of your grits cooking
Stars and stripes waving magisterial from
The window of your black SUV
I bundle you to these cliches
Because I have the urge for knowing you
Beyond your vowels so televisually familiar
The clippered edge of your self-knowledge
Don’t you know my people?
We are not mysterious to ourselves,
No ancient unexplained never never.
Our taciturn humility is born
From boredom
With ourselves
A lack of fascination
Bred from the inability to fascinate.
I want to know you out of your cities
You, only the landscape of you,
To love your in your born geography
The milky wet greys and greens
Ah – your wheaten fields mesmerising
Travellers vibrating from the road
You, your vast canyons,
Your empty motels
Every day, every confused, dying symbol of you.
eleanor j jackson 