See, I remember we were talking about Pegasus.
So Pegasus has a sibling.
Sure.
Why not?
[LAUGHS] I think it's wild.
So in the sibling is either--
so then there's also that part.
The sibling is either a winged boar, sure,
or a golden giant man.
[LAUGHS]
I'm just like, those things are not the same.
How do you get?
They're not even close.
So if it's the golden giant man, then he
becomes the father of Geryon who tends
the red cattle that heroically steals as one of his 12 labors.
Portrait of My Father as a Winged Boar.
"When his mother dies by metal turns slicing blade,
from her blood springs my father,
whose name I refuse to say as he refuses his father, the half
known man who sired him.
In the dry LA light, the boy, my father
turns so that he is caught, one way, a winged boar, another,
a giant, a gold blade of a man.
Both high scold, thick maned, a juvenile without a sounder,
a boy without a mother.
He recognizes himself only in the man, carves himself
into golden armor, but the rutting effect
of him, the curved tooth, the thick neck, and beating wings
trembles beneath his skin.
Whatever sheen the California sun burnishes out of his body,
whatever good work his thickening hand compels,
whatever woman he touches in the afternoon on the roof,
he cannot deny his firstborn, his red fledgling,
her many heads and hands what he makes for her.
A junk bike she loves, cattle read
in the field, a mirror, a red wreckage of her body."