LAMENTATIONS

by David Eide

The poet, like the people, travels in small conduits that shuttle between disconnected things. What pole of integrity «re they looking -for? The poet wishes for a life that grow* from the ground of a new-laid city. The poet wishes he could see the same face twice in one year. 'What dynamism do you lose to your self- interest?' he wants to shout in the street. He wished to crash through the curtain they close to conceal their shame or jealosy ousy. He does not care about their class or stature. He does not care about their race, he does not care about their political ideology, he does not care' about their'age.

'Your paltriness, your' paltriness*, your terrible paltriness,' he thinks to himself.

'Your paltriness has made you 'predictable. Is it not opposed to freedom? And behind you are structures that study your pre- dictable nature. Do you not worry about this?'

An elderly man grabs his arm in a discussion and tells him there is 'need for order'. There must be a measure of predictabil- ity if you are to have order.

Perhaps, but what if the people die of it? Where would that leave any order of things? And let us say they die, not from a physical catastrophe but from the inability to be inspired beyond the simple movements of everyday life?'

The old man dismisses him and mutters that the damn people find many new ways to stimulate themselves.