Tricyclic

The bloom comes this morning.

Or maybe it doesn’t. I feel

coastal winds across my hips,

Mendocino cypress in my lungs.

Or maybe I didn’t feel anything.

I like to believe in omens, serendipity

& such, but cypress lung might be

a Steinese moniker for cigarette smoke.

Serendipity, the villainous corp of my D

& D campaign, perhaps divination itself,

I wonder what Stein would smoke

outta some nat 20. It’s all connected,

the campaigns of fantasy and life, diviners

we are in the truer combo of fabulism

that increasingly connects us, nat 20 irrelevant

to sinkholes littered at our feet.

A truer combo might be destruction after progress,

the teleological recap we know too well,

sinkholes upon sinkholes, feet gobbled up,

the thesis-antithesis-synthesis of who knows what.

Teleology, just like nature, doesn’t give a damn. I say

this is simply chaos extrapolated as meaning.

Thesis/antithesis/synthesis, who cares

when the bloom doesn’t come this morning.