Nectar makes me spit. Ambrosia makes me choke.
I don't care much for godly food, but sit at my table
Eating chitterlings, neckbones and black-eyed peas,
A garland of wilted laurel leaves resting crooked
On my head, telling my wife that the garbage disposal
Is a lying oracle, its prophetic utterances not to be trusted,
How it's much more reliable to reading lamb's livers
And goat's gizzards.
Wandering dazed and barefoot onto a neighbor's porch
In the middle of the night, wearing pajamas and bathrobe
Embroidered with the infamous initials-- "D.T."
Pounding on the door screaming: "
Layfayette, I am here! Viva la France! Viva Napoleon! "
Calling out louder as she tries to quiets me:
"It was me, I who tickled the priestess at Delphi
And made her giggle girlishly, I who exposed Heracles
As a chronic bed wetter, I who danced drunkenly to the wild
Lute of Pan, and ran the woods after Artemis, yes, and
I again who spit in the forge of Hephestus!"
My wife finally leading me away by the arm like a blind and
Broken Oedipus, a tragic hero.
Climbing into bed, listening to ghosts walking the hallway,
Whispering familiar names in the darkness, haunted by all
The dreams I've sacrificed, left butchered on a marble altar.
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