The Summit: For the Sage of Shawnee: Jim Spurr

Rumors of a sage living in Oklahoma
disseminating wisdom like some Okie Yoda
Pez dispenser reached the Gulf Coast of Texas.
In serious need of any wisdom freely given,
I climbed into my Malibu and headed north.

The rumors said this sage held court
in a high place in or around Shawnee,
so I headed to the Arbuckles, climbed
all fourteen hundred feet to the highest peak,
to find an old fellow sitting there in bib overalls
and a John Deere hat. “I suppose you looking
for the Sage of Shawnee? Suppose you heard
he held court at a high place and expected to find
him here. Well, he ain’t me. I just work here shooing
the ill informed away from these dangerous peaks.
The one you seek can be found at this here address.”

I thanked the man for his guidance, fired up
my GPS and arrived at the bottom of an endless
staircase that took me two days to climb. I finally
arrived at the top, beset with doubts. (I mean
if this guy was so freaking smart why didn’t he teach
in a place with an elevator?) I arrived to find a sign
that said Welcome to Knuckles, and sitting alone
at a table next to the bar was this man with Shawnee
emblazoned on his t-shirt. He looked at me
and said, “My name’s Spurr. Take a load off.

I once went to college in this here town. Read a book
by a monk named Rabelais. It was long-ass book
too. I read it in chapel. I never liked chapel much,
but that’s another story. Anyhow, this rebel monk
at the end of his long assed book said the meaning
of life can be found in the clinking of wine glasses,
but he was French you see, so he didn’t quite get it
right. Barkeep!” In front of us appeared two cold mugs
filled with beer. “Cheers mate!” We clinked glasses.
And in that one clear note, I’ll be damned
if I didn’t begin to understand.