This morning, between two branches of a tree  
Beside the door, epeira once again
Has spun and signed his tapestry and trap.  

I test his early-warning system and
It works, he scrambles forth in sable with  
The yellow hieroglyph that no one knows  
The meaning of. And I remember now
How yesterday at dusk the nighthawks came  
Back as they do about this time each year,
Grey squadrons with the slashes white on wings  
Cruising for bugs beneath the bellied cloud.  

Now soon the monarchs will be drifting south,  
And then the geese will go, and then one day  
The little garden birds will not be here.  

See how many leaves already have
Withered and turned; a few have fallen, too.  

Change is continuous on the seamless web,  
Yet moments come like this one, when you feel  
Upon your heart a signal to attend
The definite announcement of an end
Where one thing ceases and another starts;  
When like the spider waiting on the web  

You know the intricate dependencies  
Spreading in secret through the fabric vast  
Of heaven and earth, sending their messages  
Ciphered in chemistry to all the kinds,
The whisper down the bloodstream: it is time.

~

gold-encrusted jewels dance
on sun-drenched ocean stacks,
his rugged rocks etched deep
by her waves from far beneath,
and Pacific’s gusty breath;
his wind-swept islets burn,
aflame in sunset's dying embers,
like a lover's siren call.
his chiseled keyholes waiting
for the ciphered piercing rays
to collide in rushing tidal spray.
unlocking sunset's golden hour...
surging forth then quickly fades,
as sunbeam fingers slowly slip,
beneath horizon's sultry lip;
dusk unfolds in magic hues,
molten rose turns scarlet blues,
night descends as one by one,
we raptured star-kissed lovers
disembark this ferris wheel;
the curtain falls again,
with sea and rocks
rehearsing lines
to play again another day.
this their theatre
of the night,
performed by two alone,
beneath the moon
and starry sky.

~

*post script.

our last time through in 2004 was a blur on our way through to San Diego, an exhilarating ride for certain, with all of its bends and curves experienced top down in a convertible, but hardly doing justice to Big Sur’s stunning scene in mere hours; we told ourselves we simply had to return.  

it took eleven years, and this time we spent a full five days and nights along Highway 1, towing a camper and slow-driving south from Monterrey all the curves to Morro Bay, exploring just about every hike and lookout in between; and in so doing, validating our return in a most satisfying way.  Big Sur is officially off our bucket list!  her sunsets were particularly rewarding, especially two... one enjoyed at sea level, from the sand and keyholes at Pfeiffer Beach day use area, the other delighted us from high above the ocean waves, seated at the picnic table of our cliff-side camp site at Kirk Creek Campground.

a most refreshing time to recuperate and recharge our spirits; five glorious days of disconnection, reconnecting to nature, each other and best of all, life at the speed of sunsets and star gazing; evenings spent round the campfire with no cell, no i-pad, no laptop, only the light of the fire, the stars and that sparkle in each other's eyes!

Do you know...
What families are made up of?
What cousins plan to do to you, behind your back?
With whom father was having those long conversations over the phone?
What happens with some of the best friendships?
Why loving a lover almost always only hurts?

Maybe we fail to decipher this world
Maybe this world fails to express more s*imply

Next then now, then next
no line, no dot, nothing now

time passes, came to pass,
as a near answer, a near new
point from which to view now.

…
In my case, my time as part,
smallest difference made,

the air you breathe, once,
I breathed into, and once,

I made you think yourself,
become a being I am not, but

then,
time,
and chance, all things working,
being, by gone, on gone working
to gather the momentum to make
time stretch into another whole mo-
ment, monumental pillar of earth salt.

At this point, next seems inevitable.
So we wait.
Thinking a next like this next one,
has never had a state of being common.

What - all ifery asks, if, imagined, seen, see

we agree and proceed to see, so time's
essence is momentarily mental, we think,
therefore we do many mental moments, we
think we would, or could or should be ready
for ever to cease forming myself, from myself,

slowing time, to myself, for myself, taking mine
and forming some for you to use, to take a second

order of packeted eventuality, side-tracked,
to let the important news of many deaths elsewhere,
make us agree to become so much better informed,

buy the best life has on offer, ready,
read the instructions.
{ lifetime acheivement, never reached}
Chiefest among missers of the mark.

Of course, in the course of human events,
from the playing fields of Eton, to the battlefields
of Afghanistan, what power reigns supreme?
- The Lion came, and brought the Tiger,
- the Bear came, and left, and then the Rat,
- or the Weasle, we can even see a Squirrel
- in the role of first worst case scenario on offer.
VOG - quiet on set, quiet back stage,
mind reengage tongue, taste the fertile reality, who
and what we are, enjoyment, actually, being, mere joy,
ahoy, adrift in all our otherwords, set idle by our tech-logic
- What fear rules the man who has learned his role?
Broken leg, reversed cursing, blessing God, just in case.

-- A day, Ivan Denisovich, Zeks, yes,
man's inhumanity to man, and best layed plans

plotted course of concentration, minds meld, given
incentive to spill over the banks of the feeder canals,

as the hermit's cistern in the Lagunas, topped it's edge,
and he sighs, thinking, so it is, you got a cistern,
I gotta cistern, if yours were to overflow,
it is your fault, or your glory for the joy, in the streets
in the summer,
in the city, back o' yo' neck red and sweaty, you dig,
you become worthy of the daily bread we are given
for righteous duty done, did I do, or did you, did we

sing along with the bouncing ball, did we all?

Thinking, all we do is wait,
becoming old, we wait to finish thinking,
thinking old, old, olden days, before letters,
before
knowing, being nothing, becoming this, these
lines of lettering linking noises used among us
to carry thought from me, myself and I, to you,

the one other at the moment, in the state,
what if, what if, what if nothing makes more
difference than you, one of us, one in our once

in an unbroken history of science and philosophy,
our hours of confluency, our instants in shared
learning, minutes of life's use, as used to make us
up from nothing… to think about a series of every

expansion to our sense of connectedness, seeing
we lieve being true, first proof the priests do lie,

first proof the chaos is not evil, but essential
patient zero, paradigm,
"logical or conceptual structure
serving as a form of thought
within a given area
of experience," Kuhn, perhaps, aligned

any worth, any value, any cost or price,
eventually, any time is too short.
Any vessle filled with experiential wonders
projected on reflective walls, six ways walled.
windowed and doored.

In parts, in passing, taking offerings
left in pasts for hungry spirits, urging

answer seeking, seeming endless, whying,
ifing, framing forms for fitting twos to ones,

as when we agree, we form a two headed
thing, with we agreeing meatily to work
as carnal minds do, given set and setting,

inform a vessle for holding self evidence.

Governing systems, blindman crosswalks,
mandated, ai, remote eye aware, are we,
seeing from television, new form, digitized
bit maps of surprising resolution, if one re-
members learning lessons of scale, how tall,
how small, the ratio, this pattern of whorls,

and that, fingerprint from some once in ever,
there, we all see it, so huge we lack the frame
of referrence, we cannot bear the weight of knowing

we are the tipped point on our wave's recourse
around the laws serving stanchion roles in god's houses.

Pillars formed from promises, to those who find the time,
now, in a given day,
plain old everyday summertime, growing time, passing
as quaint, handcrafted meditation stations, desert fathers,

have we any wool, yessir, yessir, three bags full,
master, dame, and some poor spinner
who lives down the lane… earning daily bread,
as penance for being born in sin, losing all the good God
had planned, I' know a guy,
he can tell this story,
as a called and reconnected son, of God.

And the likelihood, actuarially, as tithes passed,
interesting, heft, umph, to the indulgent users, knowing
good and evil, evil is lazy money, doing no man any good.

Knowing how to grow more money, Midas, reminds,
as do many voices from the tombs, liars prosperity changes

legends, shapes myths, fixes history just so, at the instant,
we knew, we all knew, at once, everything,
is after ever before,
and we have stores of knowns, unbeknownst,
arranged in time and alpha beth order, for habitual
referrence, you know, we all know religions are powers
wielded by Ideal candidates, chosen children, and broken
old ladies,
what mystery is more mysterious than they,
the power they rewield as time stamps, proof, there

that guy was a witness, and he was not there,
on the stair, I
sat, imagining I remembered that, and found it odd.

I have been lied to, and I have lied, to you, I do,
naturally, I am of that class of sapient things, I can
lie, if lying leads the mark into the mark-et try and do,

do, indeed, Yoda, wink. Done, and beheld, now, that
is time well spent.

AND there's more…

Meta Kuhnian Crisis Paradigm.

Four nickles, two dimes, time was,
two novels, or four one reel peep shows,
-SECOND COMING TYPE- ten 2 cent papers
WAR CALLS
PEACE-
times means for holding a cultural bubble,
intact, sticky in fact, tacky to the touch,

RSO and blue stripes… settled hermit state,
from a granite lip of a feng shui breeze,
AI, what do I know - in summary,
a procession
Summarizer
The Structure of Scientific Revolutions is a book written by philosopher Thomas S. Kuhn in 1962.12 Kuhn argued that scientific advancement is not linear, but rather a series of peaceful interludes punctuated by intellectually violent revolutions, where one conceptual world view is replaced by another.3 The book offers a general pattern of scientific change, where inquiries in a given field start with a clash of different perspectives.1 Eventually, one approach manages to resolve some concrete issue, and investigators concur in pursuing it—they follow the "paradigm." Kuhn challenged long-standing linear notions of scientific progress, arguing that transformative ideas don't arise from the day-to-day, gradual process of experimentation and data accumulation, but that the revolutions in science, those breakthrough moments that disrupt accepted thinking and offer unanticipated ideas, occur outside of "normal science." The historical process of science is divided into three stages: a "normal" stage, followed by "crisis" and then "revolutionary" stages.0

Of my own volition, if one were to assume
one of my stations in life could possibly know my own will,
revolunteered to lead a raid behind the lines,
out of loyalty to a bucket list
perfect cow dismemberment, check,
tear a sacred cow to shreds and leave it to be ciphered out,
by farmers living high on the Teapot Dome affair,
and its coincidence to great social reformation,
- steam roll, electric mind of Tesla
- and all the unsung genius under Edison, into one,
- as the online entity with roots back to BBS and
- dial tone tricks of a switch…
yes, the burden of the rich, as we saw the similarities,
become the unresolved problem,
- mission drift, art intuited cognosis
have you never read where it is written that we,
we who read
being the only letting being
to let it be known, that we are to judge angels,
- where does this go?
as best messaging noncorporeal beings, wielding spirit in truth,
not some clown troupe trope miss
representing feeble minds reattempting trials,

Not Clarence, or Caspar, or the couple in the Thin Man,
nor Harvey, the Pooka manifested as human in a rabbit hat.

In profile he became the ******* Logo, same rabbit head guy.
Bunny lore, wrapped in chinchilla, soft as kitten fur,

who would ever tell?

--- Business, summer makes me think of winter sales.

No curious use of curio arts, ancient
beta better possible ways, from when we knew nada
at all, zip, zilch, no se, no way, we were babes,

and if we are raised, we become like animals, we sweat.
But, if we are reared, we become as men, we perspire.

As sentient beings who read as readily as we write,
we accept the role of reader as ours by right, or rote
ritual quotidian duty, each day, we plan to finish re-en
lightening the mob, the masses, eight billion of us now,

as we approach the peak, powers of ten, times six,
why six,
cubes stack nice… least heat, cool
enough to seal a preset get,
go, be gone to elicit light,
research into mind mold.

Who are our fathers and what have they done with our trust?
Each time we reach through the root our catch is fruit we've been denied.

A shadow is a strange but welcome bedfellow for a
Recluse here in the silicon boneyard,
End of line for the scavenging harbingers.

At night the freaks come out to work crafting
New and fleeting marks on an arcane slate
Over wires the naked emperor built.
Now the host succumbs to the flames it fed;
Sore eyes for ciphered sites.

24,720,437.
(give or take a few)
minutes in my life.
the number is profound,

but it's not that easy
to break a life down.
i'm sure there's a calculation, that covers the basics bits work, eating, sleeping, abultions.

but, to bring the moments
to the minutes,
thats a vastly different thing.

how do you count the moments of brillance
that burn bright,
on the horizon beyond and before.

those moments of pure kindness,
or blind and ****** ignorance
that elicit change.
the joy of the moment,
the rage of a second,
the hours borrowed
in worry never
yet to be repaid.

how many minutes
wasted or not fully tasted, devoured to quickly.
those seconds we fumble,
in awkward silences
or those we waste
wanting more.
then the hours of breast beating or simply bleating

are they lesser in importance,
than, the days
lost in thought,
or in grief,
time spent,
begging for relief
from a heart so, so, sore.

remember the weeks
we sent packing,
the fox or the bear,
or the lion and the tiger from fear's flimsy, fragile door.

months of not belonging, then, the longing
and finally the lounging
and laughing,
when tickled to our core.

the tock of the clock
when we are too cold,
or too hot or just not...
quite right.
time that keeps ticking, while,
we are sticking our noses where they are not wanted.

time spent watching
from afar,
minutes of small talk,
hours of deep and meaningful,
days of young love,
months of expectancy,
years of togetherness, decades of love.
a delineation of seperateness,
eons, immemorial
of eternity.

these are the times,
of my minutes,
my moments of grace,
i want these,
ciphered into,
the fabric of time.

(a piece from high school (I’ve been reorganizing))

I am simply at my worst these days.
Wild and unpredictable emotions rush on me - it's a place where the layer of control and composure are very thin.

This school year has been an endless working, always desperate, collection of days.

Each passing week seemed to unmask some flaw in me.. Like peeling a rotten onion.

Emotionally, spiritually, I’m drubbed—I droop like a hanged man.

It's not the work—I survive (piano) competitions and academic battles as if by some brand of magic..

No, it's more.
I have lost my goal. Like biblical engineers raising the tower of Babel on the plain of Sennaar, I am struck by a lack of focus. My direction, my original plans, seem shallow—I stand purposefully gelded.

It's worse because I'm somehow so much less who I want to be.

Like an asymptotic curve I constantly miss my ideal. I am hunted, internally, by my own inner voice, that ruthless, pittyless, seeker of perfection.. it lurks like the prowling wolf, stalk bent walk.. sifting my every thought, my every action for flaws.. until like the wing weary hunted pray I could almost welcome the killers warmth for sweet silence

In a mood somewhere between cowardly and courageous I finally approached my mom..

In a speech from the scaffold, I told her of my black, tight, treacherous spiral.. of my doubts about everything.

I expected the worst.. a disappointment, in less than cryptic, ciphered messages, a slow sharpening of her claws on me for endless shortcomings..

Instead, I got miracles..
as if rigid constellations had shifted.. an atmosphere of freedom earned.. and at least for that moment, the mom who used to sing me awake in the mornings as a girl.. and a delicious summer of rest.
.
.
A song for this:
Everyday Is A Winding Road by Sheryl Crow
Cruel To Be Kind by Letters to Cleo
.
Oh, and a Christmas playlist because—it’s December!:
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_02.mp3

Hoped for situations,
aspiring emulation
of champion surrogates, heros
of historical progress in war's glory.

Visit Valhalla come, make an image,
see some form of spirits in spirit realms
where all the joys
in recruiter's promises are amplified,

wait and see, say the holy teachers,
**** for the promises that persuaded
slaves to volunteer as an army for truth…
Scared of Hell, most likely, sacred
reason for the faith to believe that.
Greedy for punishment, perhaps, lazy
too long, unsatisfied with life's last chance.
- ready, judge the day's worth,
- suddenly it's yours to use, for that
- the price you pay, each line, etching

Later, when the physical nature of your soul,
releases your spirit, and the machine screams,

under certain circumstances, total positioning
at the right instance of human evolution, wishing

not to die, right this minute, wait,
NOISELESS LIGHTENING - awake, ah
NOISELESS LIGHTENING - awake, wha
NOISELESS LIGHTENING - awake, ah, wow.

Did that happen to you?

Old man in the mirror laughing at me,
asking me if I have ciphered out the cost
to my peaceful kingdom model on Earth,

must I disagree aloud, or let the liar lie?
You shall not surely die die.
Did the serpent lie?
What is טוֹב רַע, towb ra da'ath
a tree of
knowledge of beauty adversity.

It is not good for a soul to be without knowledge.

Adam, was not smart, nor sapient, when
the tellers
of the tale began
to tell, how come we to be,
at all curious, if he was not,
he was alone,
and without a doubt,
incomplete, he had no womb.
He did not know, so nothing mattered.

So, did the scribe lie, or did the professor?
Or, am I, as we read, imagining inside the bubble,
from core imaginative thinking comes
smoke to impress spirit emergency

- I am alive- I feel emotions. A year later,
- life speeds up at the end.

Common sense spirit, everybody knows,
listen, what knowing is, magic was.

What did one come to do,
incidental, or accidental,
honest, to myself, one
had no why until I was that one.

Then with a thought I imagined
you as one, thought, me, another,
we, together, apply in the verb ag,
for this job, agging right use on, ag
to push on
from off, up
from down, lighter and brighter,
by chance and circumstance
paid a modicum of good intention,

feeling visual, insensitive at tension,
feeling usual, breathing easy,
seen
fitting will to willing ness, e motion
e volution, life's here coming
in time and space, as is
supposed to be
stored for whys questioned
in life's record book, we stories
whereby lifes's ra' ugly efforting is known,

the knowledge needed to make an edge,
to cut meat from bone, who
among us, can remember
not knowing how to live?

"Never caught a rabbit,
and ain't no friend of mine, well,
that's alright now, momma,

I bought the heartbreak hotel.


Image make, think
a bubble, nothing init

Flush the Fifties, through
the Twenty-twenties, low side

spin a whirling fluxuation
into a reflection seen through

science somewhere abides
below conscience active as ware…
used to think a thought a second time

get a minute with no dutiful demand
put on it, pay it focus, close attention,

stretching tendencies to miss the basics.
Stretching an imaginary bubble, is easy,

make it perfect with pi derived from center
tend toward knowing why before how,
image and spirit, my soul, I'da said it's
my I beam affecting effectuality
of hoping,
as weighed against rote ritual praying
focus
fee for phi spun why nots reminiscent
lucence of pine knots imagined in our
image
smoldering torch in a tunnel
bubble stretching coming being thing
tugged and pulled by all involved,
evolving mind combining senses,
singing, laughing, knowing,
details and good adverse
reverse conditioning,
aggravating mortal consciousness.
we thought,
and drew a line.

IN UNION WITH THE SOUL
(Bijoylakshmi Das, 20th Jan 2020)
Words float in air in eerie silence of the Night,
Message undeciphered writ by the great Hierophant in His Mystic height,
I revel in the Bliss of the unforgettable Vast recondite,
To unravel the prophecy of the unsullied oracular insight.

Unbuoyed by Mind's vague gestures and vain surmise,
In the auspicious ensemble of divine moments' pleasant surprise,
The Evening iridescence has already ciphered her enlivening episode,
A prelude to the unique journey ahead of me: My Soul's adventure.

In the azure ambience of the all-pervading inane Solitude,
My Soul has taken the flight to the remote realm of blissful Beatitude,
The long-travail of the distant past is buried in the debris,
The body has cast off its mask of transience to begin life anew.

Love turns into the lisping lullaby of the lucent Moonlit mirth,
The brightening brilliance of the silvery beams casts spells of majestic magnificence
Soon life slips into sleep's loving lap in the land of reverie,
Life on Earth in its highest awakening is freed from age long slavery.

The breeze from the distant woodland brings blossoms' fragrance,
The highest manifestation is awaiting for Unforeseen's amazing advance,
The loving Sweetheart's solemn footsteps herald a divine nuance,
The beautiful flowers bloom in the lone ascetic's austere visionary trance.

The Sunrays' glitter even feels ashamed to shine at the Godhead's feet,
Where Joy and Light overflow with endless radiant rays of the blissful Infinite
The dazzling brilliance ascends to the unreachable heights of the sky,
To make man get merged into the Transcendent Vast far away.

The New Hopes find release in the ruins of agony' s despair,
The seeds of dignified elegance begin to germinate in Earth's mud and mire,
The celestial Certitude celebrates the carnival of her charming cadence,.
Life upon Earth gets ennoblrd in Supreme's enlivening ascendance.

The Creation is not a battlefield of greed and Lust and violence dire,
The blood and sweat of the earthly toil is not to be burnt in the abysmal
fire,
It's time to rise to the highest awakening of the apparently unpromising Earth,
Man! Come back to your identity in Soul in the novel Vernal Birth.
(Bijoylakshmi Das)

Centerpiece cracked—poetry’s pulse correct,  
syntax divine, sorrow direct.  
Impossible cadence with roots in grief,  
embedded deep, truth past belief.  
Undeniable—bars stitched in ruin,  
every rhyme another mask I’m brewin’.  
Switching faces, tempo-chased,  
fractured like mirrors I never replaced.  
Jagged reflections dance in flow,  
kaleidoscope panic, mind in snow.  
Flip the beat—turn it inside out,  
sound spirals where my thoughts shout.
Wasting away in verses made steel,  
rhythm convulses with ghost appeal.  
Glitchin’ around in dissonant haze,  
static commands where silence obeys.  
I’m temporary—outta place and loud,  
voice of the storm wrapped in shroud.  
Velocity escalates, rhyme combusts,  
emotion tremors in data dust.  
My syllables sprint through shattered air,  
ciphered screams too real to spare.  
This isn’t rap—this is flare-core pain,  
hookless gospel carved in disdain.
Rooted emotionally—masked and divine,  
I rhyme like collapse was always mine.  
Jagged throne built from tempo’s ash,  
glitchpulse crown in lyrical clash