Coincidence theorists wear hipster hats.
I can't help but feel partly responsible.
What's in front of us chokes like kudzu,
Dreams too large now, mysteries too small.
Even I chase Prez Prado vinyl
In concentric circles down greater Redondo
As the reals reel in circles,
Plots and chords never resolved,
But the mind like a needle-threading fiddle
Overcomes the glare, by creating what is not
To bear light on the Fullertonians
Like haarpists fakewinter the sky.
They open their umbrellas on the bus
Like death and Texas, or Iceland poppies.
