“I’ve still got a twinkle in me”. – Robert Plant
The spitting old man, just spit some more, sitting near the highway, someone you cannot ignore. His clothes they looked spun from an old weave, the kind done by hand, by a spell, you cannot see. And, everything about him was hard to judge, was he from the past or the future up above. The wrinkles in his face drew a roadway in my brain. A whispered little prayer about something strange. Oh boy, brother, here on thirty-four, on my way to Estes, I have seen you before. For some strange reason Robert Plant’s voice just darkened my door. I hear “Bob” say, “I’ve still got a twinkle” in me today, yes sir that is what I say, right now, my reflection is causing my energy to drain.
The spitting old man, just spit some more, he talks just a little than he talks a little more. The Colorado Cherry Company just lent me their porch, there is a change in his face as a shadow darkens the near door. “You look surprised to see me here”; he says looking up as the shadow draws near. The bones of my future or may be my past look to teach me something, as the shadow disappears it was not meant to last. “I am sent by something”, says the spitting old man, “that walks in beauty, and it sends you a test”. “It asks for self-evaluation, says the mean won’t do, the law of common averages are not for you”. “The “Ancient of Days“, wants to let you judge, if your life is beneficial, before the daemon comes and say’s, you don’t know much”.
The spitting old man, just spit some more, he suddenly stands up his eyes flashing neon, like the sign in the store. He says, “I’ve seen you before”! I know it then, suddenly, as the Big Thompson Canyon starts to roar. I have looked into myself, and seen an elaborate sin. Seen my life growing colder, a lack of excitement within. No longer delving into the mystery of the child in me, to snatch appreciation and turn it to belief. I have strayed a little longer through the web of din, wrapped my arms into the clasp of where pain comes in. Stared a little bit too long into mediocrity, wrote the poem of a blind man that claimed oh woe is me.
The spitting old man, just spit once more, then he began to back away, until he shimmered in the door. He said, “Don’t get me wrong I’m leaving you alone, but I hope you set me free, let me be, one and done”. “For first he built the temple built it right inside of you, and now he builds the walls up higher to protect what’s true. “For I don’t really care, if I ever see you again, for if I ever do I’ll be trapped till the end”.
I looked up all around me standing outside that canyon store, at the mighty rock formations where an eagle goes to soar. And behind me flowed a river carving structure through the land, and I thought myself most fortunate to have seen the spitting old, old man! – 11.19.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל