March 24, 2018

Cartography

Atlas breathes a sigh of relief—
a setting down the celestial heavens he held up all day;
he covered himself in a blanket of stars for warmth.

Warmth—
that notion before it was one—
unconscious of there being—
yet to be conceived—
a fetus in the womb.

Atlas was born into a blank canvas to map the terrain—
to convey all that is into one interface—
one for the gods to meddle in the heart of man.
This man—
cast to survey the geo—
grew up a boy without earthen callous hand:
he held up the cosmos yet could not bite into its molten
crust to taste the nectar of its juice.

Atlas in youth was spell bound by Sisyphus—
a titan among men and great builder of humanity
admired the drudgery and mire,
heels firm and planted caught captive
by pushing a rock up a precipice to only fall back down its fated path—
such elitist dreams are these for those caught in celestial spheres.

Those celestial spheres—
dwellings for Olympian gods—
Atlas thought so noble to push up into the cosmos:
to keep these deities away from man or rather man away from them.

Atlas, an astute student of stars—
both astronomy and its myth—
if only could capture the power of the heavens to bring breath his blueprint,
the Kalipolis, to build the beautiful city, one he would reign
king of all—all knowing, all being.

Atlas wondered to himself,
is he an archetype?
An imagination of one in a child’s eyes
reaching for the stars above holding them in their place?
Atlas entered the playground by which his stele eyes could roam.
His hands reached out;
they traced these orbs from the sky into patterns of constellations on the ground—
standing now above the heavens with what laid at his feet.
With the power of Medusa, he cast reflection turning stars into marble stele.

Atlas tricked Medusa one more time—
this time instead of making her eyes wander up to the night sky in wonder and question—
he held up and cast series of mirrors on himself.
He dressed in royal garb—king of Atlantis—
soon to make his mark on clay and water—
a potter to geoengineer the terrain by which he would reign.
He would be a just king over both god and man.

Atlas casted his marble for game and sport into the constellations.
He rebelled against the gods which tutored him on the cosmos.
He was not the statue they etch,
but his marvel had power to move both man and god to rule terrain through map.

“Atlas peed his pants!
Atlas peed his pants!
Atlas peed his pants!”
Atlas felt the warmth of urine—
that all too human fluid—
turn cold into rage swallowing up
all of Atlantis by its waters.
How dare Sisyphyus say such truths to moral souls!
Atlas now understood his teacher’s rage when Sisyphyus mocked them in the classroom.

Atlas pushed Sisyphus down from the hill by which he came,
and his wrath brought forth fist full of plummeting orbits at his remains.
But Sisyphus persisted,
“Atlas peed his pants!
Atlas peed his pants!
Atlas peed his pants!” as other demigods began to chant.

Medusa, his only friend left casted her eyes on Atlas turning him into stone.
Unable to move—time stood still, but so did he.
This warmth he felt conscious thus unbearable
thus so naked thus cupid peeing in public at a town park
with children laughing at him:
the fountain poured out, but the boy stood still.

Atlas loses his marbles.
The gods took them away.
They sit to rest on teacher’s desk as punishment on display.
He must now afterschool,
afterthought,
after time itself,
minute after minute infinite unyielding—
write chalk white moral dogma of gods on black abyss.
He must maintain his stoic posture
rock etched for shadow cast—
to convey timeliness and timelessness—
eternity for a boy of nine must pass.
Yes, that will be the day Atlas thought,
the hour after the hourglass.

Author: Rj Wiechecki

I am a writer, both poet and philosopher. I do works of philosophy through the medium of poetry. I also do commissioned work as a poet as a business.

Leave a Reply

About Rj Wiechecki

I am a writer, both poet and philosopher. I do works of philosophy through the medium of poetry. I also do commissioned work as a poet as a business.

Category

Uncategorized

Tags

,