Old man, old man.

old man, old man, draped in cob webs and ancient theories.

he, whose house is a storage facility for no where.

he, who doesn't believe in the sterilizing properties of soap, harlot to humanity.

he, who dreads possession, who fears possession, who dreads the material stealing us away from our symbiotic roots.

he, who understands not, these strange american beasts, these creatures who shutter at his house of life and spiders, spiders more like mammals all that hair and high-minded nocturnal intent under the ghastly sheets of foreign strangers.

he, who scorns the american beasts for their culture of waste, of food thrown to rot, of souls grown to rot, of stomachs and tongues never satisfied, of hearts always bleeding.

he, who in the confines of his mid-day siesta hide-away, in his ramshackle hut, in his tiny corner of lost paradise wept, silent for the millions of empty stomachs, millions of miles away.

he, who in moments of humble and enigmatic greatness, licks his hand, then hand to ground, then hand to mouth, and in doing so casts his vote for existence outside of self, and was eternally mocked by foreign un-dignitaries.

he, who explained to me in my patrician frustration how to properly construct a stone wall, that it must be sensual like the curve of a beautiful woman.

he, who floating on a great cloud of his own ascetic beauty, played eastern harmonies on brass bowls, his closest friends these buddhist bowls, these empty gods.

he, surrounded by friends and family, but always other people's friends, and other people's families.

old man, old man, keeper of lost time.