the old man of the desert
gary jurechka
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 in the arid desert steam.
In this holy solitude, in this
hellish sand cathedral, he waits for
seekers of knowledge, for he is wise
to the menaing of life, he understands
the secrets of the winde and the rhythm
of clouds. But there have been no
seekers for years, no one wants
to know anymore.
In cool twilight he silhouettes atop
the gaint heat-retaining rock,
chewing peyote and staring through
wrinkled eyes as he watches yet
another barren moon arrive, pausing
occasionally to spit through grozzled
teeth a trickle of shaman juice that
briefly stains the sand before
disappearing,
like the old man,
into the silent desert
night.
