"to the dreamers, to make much of hope"

hope is madness, so i shun sanity;
give me simple, bright-colored dreams to replace the cold grey day.
i'd rather live oblivious than in oblivion.
let me sound foolish as i discuss possibility,
and put your "likelihood"s and "probable"s back in your black billfold.
i've lived too long in the land of foolish dreaming
to change my address because of one more disappointment.

let there be feasting without reason!
let there be celebration without solid cause!
let us dance to hear of one dim possibility,
for it has the greatest chance of saving us.

(let us pray that Love will save us.)

too soon the shadow draws in, squeezing
each bright note from bluebirds' songs;
so sing, scream sonnets, with blue birds--
or black birds if you must--
but sing desparately, with the conviction that foolish wishes
are more beautiful a sound than silence.
sing now, before your light grows dark
and accepts that the doubting, dampening voices
know what they're talking about.

get your hopes up! count your hatchless chickens!
enjoy the rosy glow of not knowing
as long as such sweet fog lasts,
and when the heat of day burns it off,
mourn its passing and pray for
more reasons to grow unjustified hope
in your back garden, like contraband plants,
like coca.

let hope be your illegal drug,
smuggle it through your life,
spread it around,
and smoke what you sell.


[rage, rage against the dying of hope.]