Poem by Jessica Spearman

You don't have to sell California to me.

I like it just the way it is.
The beaches, the mountains, the city.
The dirty water, the extinction of animals, the crime.

It's almost as if I am California.
Sometimes clear, sometimes not.
Sometimes blue, sometimes hot.
Sometimes mountainous, sometimes shallow.
Sometimes watery, sometimes dry.

What part of California do you want to sell to me?
The material conditions of commercial filmmaking itself?
Or the hills, rounded, blunt, burned, squeezed up out of chaos?
Or the rainbow hills, and the tender bluish mists?
Do you want to sell me the San Gabriel's, in there state of tectonic youth?

Don't tell me lies about the picturesque landscapes and sublime beauty.
California 's landscape is my landscape. Not a view of itself, but a picture of it.
An artist's interpretation. My interpretation.

Hurries us on? . No, not me. It slows me down.

I don't think you can sell California to me.
I think I'm sold already.
I like it just the way it is.

Launch the Poem

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