The Optimist

Optimism is cowardice, said Spengler.
Last night I talked with a man who,
Invisibly and through invisible wires,
Rules a minor state. All politics,
He said, is based on fear. Everyone
Votes for one reason alone: fear.
Red is afraid of blue. Blue of red.
What but hope is opposite fear? The
Market for hope is the market for fear,
Flipped in a bent mirror: a bandaid
On the cancer, worn not to heal
But only occlude. Who wants to see
That shit? The vinyl’s warm pink,
Aniline pink, anodyne pink,
Pink not even the pit can dull—
Or stone-gray suicide’s rose?
We all get through life somehow.
We look here and not there. We avert
Some eyes, gaze upon one girl to
Not notice another—the whole bit.
A person has to manage himself. But
Optimism is suicide. Optimism killed
My wife. Otherwise things are good.
Never think that death is done with you—
Death is not done—“not even done
With nations,” opines the optimist.
Who is not fool and child in his heart
And will not skip lightly to that pit?