On that lonely wide stretch of gravel beach where nearby the Cumaean Sybil once laired, I sit crossfixed under a warm Mediterranean sun in the shadow of Aeneas. In my lap sits my well-worn copy of Virgil’s classic slapped open to Book VI.1, the thin pages ruffled by a warm breeze akin to a baker’s oven’s heat discharge when standing close.
I resume my reading of the story known in certain circles as “The Golden Dough” which relates the tale of Aeneas’s travels from the Underworld to Donutland. It is believed that Virgil outsourced this chapter to Eroticus of the Mount to which I’ve composed the following poemette as tribute:
“You say “doughnut,”
I say “donut,”
Both are glut-
On and are what!”
As I look up and consider these sage words that I, with some humility, committed to Eternity via the ‘written word,’ I believe the lyrics ring True as to the Nature of Things Baked, and how different Aspects of Subjectivity might bring a new class of idioms.
I sit. Creusa’s shade lingers near, her form like a yeasty dream against a batter-like rocks of the beach where all things Good and Wholesome and Edible come to fruition in the sunny glaze that covers all.
“Soon, my darling,” she whispers.
And I know this.
“Tis’ all doughnuts (sic) and desire,” I manage after a pause. “Story of my life.”
She laughs. “You are such a creampuff”
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