I have tried to be a good man, though I fail, much as anyone must. The clouds come close, deer nest under the apple trees. I walk in the spring light fancying vengeance as the world is evil and banal and I want so much to consign all the meretricious bureaucrats to Hell. I ask Jesus to forgive me my lambent distress. I want to be good. I wish the love my animals show toward me shall be merited. I want to be the kind of poet who builds houses for people.
I agree with Jurgen Habermas: “each murder is one too many.” I wander around grieving. There is so much death and its industries are fed by good and bad citizens alike. This is why terrorists hate the nation states. Try and locate the moral centers of the United States or France. Refugees stream across uncivil borders desperate for food and medicine and they’re met with realpolitik. Neither Vladimir Putin or Barack Obama wants to save the children of this thirty years war. As I write, the half starved winter’s deer are nosing among the daffodils in my yard. I see them as children.
How to be good? “Hell isn’t other people. Hell is yourself” (Ludwig Wittgenstein) I think, “even Jesus went to Hell, and he came back, stronger.” We’re here to be good and to endeavor for strength. Such proud words. I fail, much as anyone must. Old Ludwig Wittgenstein, who often sounded like my Finnish grandmother: “we’re not put here to have a good time.”
I’m the electrolysis of good—how I’m wired. God grant me more volts.