BAGGED LIKE HOMER
I am bagged like Homer on a wine-dark sea
and I cannot get away, nor wrestle with anything,
nor fight. Speechless and soundless, my helpless
hands are idle. In looking out, I only see the
expansiveness of tall tales and stories that I know,
by contrast, to be true. The M. in my middle initial
stands for Mythology, and I will live and die by that.
When the Gods did roam the earth, and roared and
broke and fornicated with Earth-maidens - something
I myself try to continue to do - in honor of the Gods,
in respect for their idleness and wishes. No one ever
really seems to mind. These things are true. Old liars
call them myths. Rintrah Roars and shakes a bloody fist.
'How men live is their own concern. How they die is mine!'
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