The Vedanta Temple's bombastic bell is weathered with green illegible words.

From The temple's smooth wooden steps one can see the strand of oil rigs drilling
through "folded, faulted fractured sedimentary rocks," near once pristine beaches.

A disembodied sing-song voice delivers through a loudspeaker the Vedas,
Upanishads, the Buddha, Alfred North Whitehead, ask the same quiestion:
                                 "What is the I behind the eye?"

Planets not seen before suddenly appear. Place is not anywhere
that is not theoretically everywhere; and centers no longer hold.

Unfold legs,
                walk with the gods,
and their unbearable questions,
past the bronze bell
past the full parking lot.