This

This

With thanks to T.H. Parry Williams

Do I care for America? Well, I do and I don't.
That question's a trap you spring. And, well, I won't.

It's a nice enough place, from sea to rising sea,
Whose people don't know how to love it. Land of the fee,

The hypocrite, the hipster, the toil-turned hand,
The heritage we pretend to understand,

And it happens that I was born here. As for the races
(Black, white and electoral) the disgraces

Impress far more than song and spacious skies,
Or the ego of Rushmore's mountain majesties.

And I've stomached quite enough of the hullabaloo
Of kneejerk Nothings making much ado

Beneath blue sky in whose light the foul claws
Are digging up the bones of the grey Lost Cause.

Can I leave? To get some space form rhetorical muck,
I'll take a walk through my town, mind all amok,

And here I am. The library. School. Signs of DANGER:
CONSTRUCTION. Places that taught me to be a stranger

Are where I am from. In between sky and earth
There are many berths but never a second birth.

And there's that wind as I come to the old play-hill
And the sound of race-myths looting the people's will.

I'm getting pretty woozy. I sit in the park
And a dead dream starts back beating in a heart

Wrapped in that starstruck banner. So it is,
God damn it. I can't just walk away from this.

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