LAMENTATIONS

by David Eide

Bunished coins fall from face of evening sky. I will not progress. I will stand the still ground to understand origins. To be alone, to desire, to not desire, to be silent, to fear, to build, to know, to be alone. I will not talk nonsensical opinions about people. Incidents of shame make a poor biography. The biography of the confessor!

The poet knows one bitter experience. Good energies that go out to others with the return of abuse, stupidity, ignornace. The poet balances on the thin pole of the scapegoat. Who makes me perform the acts of the scapegoat? Two whole lifetimes could be made from energy lost to useless habits. First, expectations. Then, after the devils, punishment. Youth, disgusting as it is can be a treasure trove of meaning.

The poets escape when the people fight and do not build. Judgements ring from bags of useless passion. Local squabbles are filled with passionate ignornace. The poet will not fight them. He goes to his room and reads business publications. They are making things. They are making things, yes, but is their spirit embedded in the things they make? The poet is often disgusted by what they make. 'What they sell they should bury instead.'

Businessmen, you have transformed my bucolic dream. The money- men have stolen the spirit in things. You have convinced the world to embrace machines and not renewal. Perhaps the world will travel many years before it feels the same disgust.