Somewhere in the desert
of New Mexico, an old man
clothed in ragged jeans and
Jesus sandals with a druid beggar's
robe, protection against sun and
sand, sits in the scant shade
of a Joshua tree, fierce eyes staring
he shakes his wild mane of white hair
and breathes deep the aride desert steam.
In this holy solitude, in this
hellish sand cathedral, he waits for
seekers of knowledge, for he is wise
to the meaning of life, he understands
the secrets of the wind and the rhythm
of the clouds. But there have been
no seekers for years, no one
cares to know anymore.
In cool twilight he silhouettes atop
a giant heat retaining rock,
chewing peyote and staring through
wrinkled eyes as he watches yet
another barren moon arrive, pausing
occasionally to spit through grizzled teeth
a trickle of shaman juice that
briefly stains the sand before
disappearing,
like the old man,
into the silent
desert night.
