On Ginsberg's America,2nd Part Poem by Whitney Jones Olson

And yet, a refuge form the cold shoulders
I find you. America!
Land of mad rambling saints, and
drizzling caramel abounding fruits plentiful;
succulent and young, I find you.
Tangible and clear, I find you.
Clean wet reveling, in linen, I find you.
In the soiled sundry lips, the unheard whispers,
the pride, jealousy, fear, virulence,
sweaty hands in untold pockets, I find you.
I find you, though you America did not exist
at the birth of my poet father impassioned mother,
saints of old poetry or ever.

And you wage your wars and I,
claim your spirit instead
in the name of myself,
the worn holes in my beaten gloves pants and all,
and myself, which is Irish French
German English Native American
worn blended, and in the name of my
family, who came to your warring soil to
escape the wars of their own countries,
whose spirits they could not claim, no -
or even find.