Rochester Discourse - Memo To the White House
When the freedom fighter
Leaves the forest
The tongue
Is not the greatest glitter
In sun hope or moon desire
For now the land that hid the shadows
Carried comrades in its arms
Laughed in the brain
Like an alien treasure
Must be plowed and torn
Must open its belly to take
The seed of the corn
The gut must grit a grander pain
Must push, and push again
That is the only coming of us
The umbilical of infatuation
For mother, the unbirth
That brings the evidence
To tackle the tasty tongue
Of the history of imagination.
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