Contingent

The world is a welter,
a pell-mell, helter-skelter,
illusion... confusion
as far as one knows.
A mere supposition,
a poor proposition,
a guess, more or less,
and a mess, I suppose,
contingence in tandem
with a fate mostly random,
a jest or a joke,
a deception, a dodge...
a fable, a figment,
a fancy chimera,
a fata morgana,
a fake, a mirage.
It's a relative "maybe,"
a chancy "perhaps,"
a lure of good fortune,
and then a collapse,
a question debatable,
a text untranslatable,
a meaningless essay
assigned by a fraud,
some shapeless, shameless,
hapless, and aimless
beingless Being
passing for god.
Even in math now
the answers all change;
in probable systems
at best it's a range.
It's a chance; it's a dance
on the head of a pin,
a game without rules,
a game you can't win,
conditional, slapdash,
hit-or-miss, unforeseen,
accidental, chaotic,
capricious, and mean.
Yet this red tomato
I hold in my hand,
fresh from the garden,
so still and so grand,
so warm and fleshy,
so gravid a fruit,
is nothing contingent
and quite absolute.