i am a man of means, so to me it means nothing to host the most well-stuffed, well-blissed, well-blottoed of the twice-born’s retinue

Pappa Silenos

wears a chain of hellebores around his triple-neck, splayed upon his charming potbelly, tucked near his wine-pinked cheeks

i am a man of means we may

feast through ten days until May in my rosy garden

and it would be like nothing to me

no strain on my kingdom, on my Plouton-sacred gold, on my god-pleasing worth

my people, they are happy

they led him

to me

in his flower bonds, drunk and dripping all of them with merriness and wine

it is a fine thing to be a Phrygian

it is a fine thing

to want for nothing

for

to me it is nothing to pour him more wine and to pour him

more wine and to pour him

more wine and

               i have a wife and a daughter, though

              perhaps they are nothing to you

              but props with which to wield

              my misery

for ten days i ply the satyr with all i have

and in his misery all he yields is

              “Nothing,”

this through wine-kisses still stained upon his face

              “Nothing,”

this through jaws ever-aproned in smiles

              “Nothing.

              “It’s best to never be born. Failing that, to die anon.

              “Now, why make May melancholy with the fruit of knowledge

              “When the fruit of libations is here to liberate?”

              but

              i have a wife and a daughter

              my people, they are happy

              i lead them from this flowery drain

when the panther-cloaked god comes, he arrives like bells

loud

and soft at once, and for kind treatment of his foster father, for

my nothing, he offers a gift of my choosing

immortal Bakkhos, born once of a mother and once of a father

is there only one thing in this world

that counts?