LAMENTATIONS

by David Eide

There will be a time when he will rest and think about the worlds that he travels through. Dreams and memories and neighborhoods unbroken by the unspeakable poverty, fantastic books and thoughts by madmen who know the truth, grand pronouncements by good and responsible men at the end of their rope. Worlds that appear and vanish in the blink of an eye. Worlds built up like Babel or some fantastic etching in medieval Europe as complexity swept through the towns. Worlds of the Indian drinking alone in the bar in the foothills. Worlds of insects in dead trees. Worlds of whole cities that push time out into the next horizon. Worlds. Lit contents of the brain. Deep memories that suck words down into them in fascinating, necessary recombinations.

There will be a time, poet, when your restlessness will appear foolish to you. You can only perceive through gestures and moments of other people you move through: Strangers.

In the future, when you are sad-eyed and a clown of sorts, you will have realization.

For a moment be the explorer and exchange information with the secret energies of existence.