LAMENTATIONS

by David Eide

As a good American, the poet questioned all the damnable reading he had been doing. The jetting symbols of knowledge passed through him without making an impression. He only wanted to be conscious of the thematic structure of the author, his heart, his large prejudices, how many elements he was playing with, how the language was used, the definition given certain terms and the like. If it was in the poet's power he would bring knowledge back into the realm of the knowable. Knowledge as a tool. Knowledge browned and knarled in the sun by meaningful work.

Romantic! It is too late for your substance. Don't fool yourself.

The intention of specialization was not evil but many of its effects were evil. He couldn't do anything about it. The tension kept him in the world, looking at certain developments.

He had come to the conclusion that at the bottom of most books was a vanity and desire that is more instructive than the contents of the book. One could tell a great deal about an age simply by smelling the seeds at the center of a good writer's work. And, it didn't matter much whether it was a book or a corporation. Anything that was condensed, with a great deal of energy flowing through it, would relate the age in some way. At least that portion of the age that believed itself engaged in the on-going thing.