LAMENTATIONS

by David Eide

The dead, too, need songs. The not-yet-born need songs. He walks past the doom prophets at the corner where addicts hang. 'You who have taken on this burden have credibility,' he says to the prophet.

The magic aura of the material world dances forward to capture the dreams of men and women. The poet watches with curious fascination. He comments on their lack of resourcefullness and the absurdity of becoming supine to the rule of images. And they throw strange, potent words at the poet until he is afraid they're going to throw him into the Marina with the other toxins.

'Have I been sleeping? What are the shadows hanging from these people? It is the silhouette of cylinders. When they say something I am filled with images of toys and electrical appliances.'

So he goes to his favorite park and sits on the iron bench with the great overarching tree over him. He reads a novel. 'Perhaps I should write a novel.' As he reads the French novelists, the Italian novelists, the African novelist, the English novelist, the German novelists, the American novelists, the Japanese novelists and, of course, the South American novelists he notes that they've all been converted to movies. Ah, here is a tramp with something to drink who feels pity for the poet. The tramp is curious about the poet and wants to know about his life.

'You say you are a poet but what is it that you do?'

The poet answers cautiously and stares off into space.

'Well then, what do you poetize about?'

The transient rattles off an old beat poem and claims to have known beat poets who never became famous.

The poet asks him to leave.

The transient stares at him for a long time before getting up and moving toward the center of the park.

'You're going to have to be a bit more friendlier with folks if you are going to be this poet.'

As he leaves the poet thinks to himself, 'what a strange role I've taken on. I walk as one outside the circle of multitudes. The world is on the red-shift doctine. Persons can not comprehend anything operating at another speed or direction than themself. Is this not the void where zones of conflict are created?