It is to Dionysus we owe this tradition
of scholarship among the dissolute;
of wasted philosophers, the dead-white-male mahoots
staring up inebriate and urgent from
the harsh Mycenean earth.
Goatheads stabbing their shoulder blades,
they cry out in recognition of celestial ghosts:
there Orion, there Gemini, there Bardot—
driven mad with knowing
almost creaming in discovery, they call the future by its name,
claiming it for their own, unafraid
to lift the skirts of Athena and Apocalypse equally.
All of western culture is birthed by the ramblings
of these few shit-faced ancients: well done.
A good satyr knows parallelism—
a crab in the zodiac and a few in the crotch
from that Spartan lad at the mysteries.