HOT CROSSED BUNS
in the bakery window.
I stop to look at them there golden brown
in sunshine cascading down
over my shoulder. they look good.
I love hot crossed buns.
and then a shred of nearly forgotten history
enters my mind. the Christians
were successful in forcing the pagans
to give up all their old gods
with the exception of Priapus
the god of fertility
who legend has it was born
to Aphrodite from the seed of Dionysus.
Priapus was resented by Hera
while still in the womb
and she cast a spell
and the child was born
with a fat belly
huge ungainly feet
large bulbous nose
fat tongue
and an enormous cock
which was continually erect
and threatening. Aphrodite was disgusted
by this cursed and offensive child
so she cast him out in the wilderness.
herdsmen took
the rejected child in. they said Priapus
had magical powers
because everywhere he went
animals began to fuck as if possessed
and plants blossomed wildly and multiplied.
so old Priapus
became the God of fertility.
centuries later
the Christians tried to eliminate
the myth of Priapus
but the pagans wouldn't do it.
he was the only god
they insisted on keeping around.
the pagans baked bread
shaped like big cocks in homage to Priapus
which greatly offended the Christians
so they sanctified the loaves
by notching them with three crosses.
thus hot cross buns were created.
I look at the hot cross buns
in the bakery window and smile.
I think about strolling in the shop
and telling the owner about the legend
but suddenly decide against it
when I see a picture of Jesus
on the far wall behind
the bread counters.
THE ULTIMATE NATURE OF REALITY
Diogenes
walked zombie-
like
through
the streets
of Athens look-
ing
for an honest
man.
detractors
vilified
his public market
masturbation
scene. done to make
a philosophical state-
ment: if only
sexual hunger
were
as easily fed
as an
empty stomach.
people
called Diogenes
the Dog
because he said
and did
dis-
gusting things
in
the streets
over two thousand
years ago. he
yelled
slobbered
interrupted
tongue-
lashed
cursed
opponents in de-
bate. his disheveled
followers were
called
doggies.
there
is but one distinction
and that is
between
vice and virtue
said
the old man
from his
tub
where
he lived
naked
simply
in
blissful dis-
cord with the
world. none
of his
writings
survive.
HERMIT
can be
a state of mind.
right now
it is in the upper
nineties.
I sit
in here
with the air-
conditioner
going. went outside
to check the mail-
box. nothing
not even a bill.
hermits
are a bad fit
in the corporate world.
the other day
I was told
like a kid in junior high
it would
be a good idea
if I tucked in my shirt
while in the office.
probably
shouldn't
wear
sandals either.
such
behavior
is improvident
even on
casual Fridays.
really
I have a problem
remembering
rules
at
seven in the morning.
hermit
can
be a
state
of mind.
it
can
also be
a spiced cookie
made
with molasses
raisins and
nuts.
CONFUSION
is
life. the new job
did not turn out to be
what I expected
and
cold April wind through
windows
as I have them open
now
drunk. got off the el
and went straight to the bar.
a house-
painter named Tony
bought me
three shots
and wanted
to smoke bud in the alley.
I demurred
knowing
the adverse
reaction with alcohol.
I feel old
as
Tony said
are your thirty seven?
life
is confusion. seriously
I know less now
than I did
when
I was Tony's age.
and
poetry is more difficult.
better but more
difficult.
the
urge is
to delete
everything
except
Sarah the bar-
maid
so beautiful and young
as
Tony whispers
she's an alcoholic
and
I nod
knowing
every-
thing and nothing.