a shawl reading her Bible, kept a house of ill repute. Even OliverrnTwist’s workhouse (or Fagin’s gang, for that matter) must bernpreferable to such a life.rn”Root, hog, or die.” Some of the men, as many white asrnblack, undoubtedly will, but death by gunfire or a drug overdosernis hardly preferable to death by starvation. Those whornwant work will find it, so long as there is no minimum wage,rnand if they must work 60 or 70 hours a week in order to earnrnsubsistence, so much the better, if the alternative is a life of vicernand crime. It is Adam’s curse on all his descendants, includingrnCain.rnSome of the neoconservative sociologists and their ghostwritersrnare coming round to arguing for welfare reform and evenrnfor the abolition of certain programs. That is all well andrngood, but it is too little too late. So long as there are publicrnschools, housing projects, minimum wage laws, affirmativernaction requirements, and a war on drugs, there is no tinkeringrnthat can really help. The only cure for idleness is work, and thernonly cure for the pathologies of urban poverty is to be found inrnrural poverty, and it is no accident that many urban blackrnfamilies are sending their children and grandchildren to theirrnrelatives in the South. When the great crunch comes, thisrntrickle of emigrants will become a mass exodus. No one whorncan plant turnips, hoe beans, or poach deer will starve in the ruralrnSouth.rnA hundred years ago Illinois Republicans, looking for cheaprndomestic labor and a source of votes, imported trainloads ofrnSouthern blacks into Chicago. The lives and manners that hadrnbeen formed on country life were inevitably distorted and corruptedrnin the city, where the networks of kin and neighborhoodrnwere broken down. Their descendants have been addicted torna far more poisonous drug than heroin or cocaine, and that isrnthe moral servitude that comes from a life lived in dependencyrnon strangers. All the social policies since the New Dealrnhave been inspired, in some measure, by the conviction thatrnsuch problems—including the problem of Southern whiternpoverty, the problem of juvenile delinquency, the problem ofrnunassimilated immigrants—all can and must be solved by preventativernprograms such as civics education, Head Start, SocialrnSecurity, or child protection laws. But these programs turn outrnto be, if not smoke and mirrors, then lasers and missiles.rnLife hurts, reality hurts, and if we try to prevent crime orrnavoid pain, we succeed only in making ourselves less human,rnless capable of living. The tragedy of the welfare state is thatrnit infects us all. The lowest classes are becoming indolent,rn’icious, and criminal, while the rest of us have become soft,rnirresponsible, and luxurious. So long as we refuse to acceptrnresponsibility for ourselves and our families—so long as we voternfor Social Security and the vast apparatus of middle class welfarern—we are morally incapable of dismantling that part of thernwelfare state that is corrupting the lower classes. Perhaps, as ourrnown lives become so frail and insubstantial, so dependent onrnthe state for support and protection, we are even beginning tornenvy the life of lower-class gangsters. In that case, instead ofrn”doing something” about crime, we should sit back and enjoyrnthe evening news like the indolent and effete spectators at gladiatorialrngames. If popular films are any indication, the comfortablernclasses have developed a taste for blood, and insteadrnof dismantling the welfare state, we should insist upon front rowrnseats that would give us all value for our money. ‘trnDepth Chargernhy Charles Edward EatonrnIt may be simply an olive tasted,rnA glass of wine lining the tongue with red,rnA rose looked at without scabs on the eyes,rnA drop of ice-cold water on the glans.rnIt does not have to be shot from a ship,rnA decisive hit on a submarine.rnNor an avalanche falling on the roadrnJust as you drive around the dangerous curve.rnThe smallest inoculations will serve:rnThe furled iris as you bend down to smellrnBefore the flower gives up everythingrnAnd the air is saturated with fragrance—rnOr when you pick up the serviceable canernAnd find that it speaks back, flipping its sword.rnThe incised mind making its incisions.rnAwakened, the great insinuator.rnThus you will cure and calm deficiency,rnMaking and receiving innuendos,rnInured to the huge rock mass on the roadrnAnd the banging and shuddering overhead—rnNot that the head lies easy in the airrnOr water, but that we live for insight—rnThe pencil purls as well as the sword-tiprnOnce shields of isinglass drop from the sky.rnI do insist upon that fresh olive.rnThe thrilling glass of wine, that unscabbed rose.rnThe heat around the hatband when you thrustrnThe cane—the received, wanting intaglio.rnIt will add up to depth charge, dazzlement,rnI assure you, the kind that does not kill—rnAfter the long, keen, indicative stroll.rnIn the hall, light keeps fencing with the cane.rnJANUARY 1995/13rnrnrn