Every night he would have a different lover,

the statue of Priapos a witness,

an old souvenir bought from an old peasant witch

during his visit to the ruins.

The sickness was a curse for him but a desire

for the others who frequently commented

on his immoral and sinful ways.

In particular, his neighbor, who beat his

wife frequently, often made remarks to

the other members of the neighborhood

about his neighbor’s decadent lifestyle.

Then he would return to his house,

make love to a bottle of cheap whiskey and

empty his frustrations on his poor wife

who dreamed of being Priapos’ lover,

if only for a night.

The old woman across the street

also desired to share Priapos’ bed.

Her body not as soft as it once was

and not as tight - but the thirst existed.

She called the thirst Satan who shared

her bed many nights only to be driven away on

Sundays by incomprehensible mumblings, cries

and the presence of the priest who would

stop by for lunch.

Priapos paid no attention to the life

that unfolded boringly around him but he knew

it existed. Happy to be condemned

he would stare at his malfunctioning organ and smile.

Not to desire something that only a few have felt

was utterly absurd, he murmured. To find salvation

in anything is the utopia.

I am the male bee, he thought, I am the flowing river,

I am the great Buddha.